Poetry

Fresh

Fresh In the hush of dawn, the dew‑kissed grass exhales, A scent of earth, of green, of morning’s first sigh. The baker’s oven sighs warm loaves onto the counter, Crust crackling like autumn leaves

Major

On the sun‑lit drill square, A Major strides, his shoulders squared, His voice a major triad, clear and strong, Calling troops to march in steady throng.

Feign

Feigning smiles in cafés where the rain taps softly, We mask our thoughts behind a polite façade, A veneer of calm that flutters like a moth, While underneath, true feelings stir unseen. In the

Stink

Stink A lurid whiff of Sunday fry‑ups, the oily tang that clings to apron strings, a pungent chorus from the market stalls, where cheese turns ripe and fishheads swing. It drifts

Karma

Karma turns the quiet wheel of deeds, A soft echo in the marrow of each day, What we sow in thought, in word, in gentle creed, Returns to us like rain on Lancashire

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives