Poetry

Goner

Goner In the dim‑lit lane behind the old cinema, a figure slips, shoulders hunched against the rain, each step a whisper on the wet pavement, a sigh that the wind carries away like old

Wooer

A wooer walks the lane where blossoms sigh, His heart a drum of hopeful, steady beat; He courts the moon, he woos the evening sky, With verses stitched in silk and scented sweet.

Totem

In the hush of ancient woods, a totem stands, Carved with stories that the elders whisper, Its eyes a deep, unfading amber, Watching over tribe and wanderer alike. Each groove a memory,

Delta

Delta In the quiet hush of morning tide, the river sighs and splits its pride, spilling silver threads to meet the sea— a living Greek letter, Δ, set free. Each distributary, a slender

Stout

In the dim‑lit tavern, a pint of stout waits, Its midnight hue a cloak of roasted barley fate. Silky as a woolen jumper on a Yorkshire morn, It whispers of oak, of coffee,

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