Poetry

Alone

Alone In the hush of evening’s amber glow, I walk the quiet lane where shadows grow, Footsteps echo soft on cobblestone, A solitary heart beats its own tone. The wind whispers through the

Moult

Moult When winter’s chill begins to wane, the feathered cloak starts to fray, each plume lets go in silent rain, a quiet shedding, day by day. In burrows deep the rabbit

Audit

In the quiet hush of morning light, The ledger lies, a steady page, Numbers marching in ordered rank, Awaiting the auditor’s sage gaze. With keen eye and measured tread, They scrutinise each entry’s

Round

Round In the quiet of a Sunday morning, the sun climbs a perfect orb, spilling amber over the pavement, warming the stones like a buttered scone. Children chase a bright red ball across the green, their

Golem

In the dim alleys of an old Prague night, A clay‑figure rises, mute and bright, Fashioned by rabbi’s whispered prayer, From earth and water, shaped with care. His eyes are pits where

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