Poetry

Shard

A sliver caught in winter light, A glass‑born shard, thin as a sigh, It whispers secrets of the night, Where once a whole vase used to lie. Each edge, a fragile, biting

Those

Those shadows that linger behind the kitchen door, Those whispers that rustle through autumn leaves, Those faces we meet on a rainy afternoon, Those moments that stitch themselves into memory’s seam. They

Crimp

Crimp— a gentle fold in the hair, a silver coil of wire, a pressed line upon the page, each bend a whispered prayer. In salons, tongs hiss low, waves rise like tide‑kissed dunes, while engineers with steady

Wince

In the hush of an empty theatre, a sudden note makes the audience wince, a sharp, bright sting that pricks the throat, like a splinter of glass caught in the throat’s seam.

Shire

In the hush of a Suffolk shire, where hedgerows stitch the patchwork fields, the morning mist clings to the gate, a soft wool blanket over sleepy sheep. Lorries rumble low on the

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