Poetry

Solar

Solar whispers at dawn’s first light, A golden thread that weaves the day, It paints the hills in quiet hue, And turns the river’s flow to sway. In fields of barley, sun‑kissed

Tangy

A zestful whisper on the tongue, Tangy fruits in summer’s song— Lime’s bright bite, a citrus spark, Lemon’s sharp, a daring mark. It dances like a cheeky dart, A piquant twist that steals

Drink

A cuppa steams beside the hearth, Its amber swirl a quiet mirth. Or perhaps a pint of bitter‑gold, Shared laughter rising, stories told. From tea to tonic, fizz to brew, Each sip a pause, the

Crank

In the workshop’s dim‑lit hush, The old crank turns with stubborn gush, A rusted arm that grinds the gear, Singing low for all who hear. Though folk may call him odd, a crank, He keeps

Slump

In the hush of a November dusk, the town slipped gently into a slump— the factories’ chimneys exhaled thin smoke, the high street’s shop‑fronts wore a weary lump. Commuters trudged in sodden

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