Poetry

Cheek

On the curve of a smiling face, Lies the soft, warm rose of cheek, A blush that blooms in quiet grace, Where laughter hides and secrets speak. It puckers when a tease is near, A

Mince

In the kitchen’s quiet hush, the butcher’s blade sings soft and low, turning beef to fine mince, a blush of scarlet threads that ebb and flow. It sizzles in the pan, a

Royal

In the hushed corridors of ancient stone, A crown of gold catches the dawn’s soft tone, Where regal footsteps echo through the hall, And whispers of the throne enthral. The sovereign’s gaze,

Scare

In the hush of night the wind does sigh, A rustle in the hedgerow, a fleeting eye. Shadows crawl across the garden wall, A whispering chill that makes the brave‑heart stall. A

Fewer

Fewer footsteps echo down the lane, Fewer clouds linger in the grey‑tinged sky, Fewer words are whispered in the rain, Fewer hearts beat beneath the same old sigh. Yet in the quiet

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives