Poetry

Abase

When pride is stripped and honour’s crown is bowed, We watch the mighty sink, their spirits subdued. To abase a soul is to pull the bright sky low, To drag the lofty mountain

Stool

On a low, wooden stool I perch, Its sturdy legs a humble church Of quiet thought and steady grace, A simple seat in time and space. It bears the weight of weary

Crust

A slice of pie, its crust a golden lace, holds within a spiced apple flavour, each flake a whisper of buttered labour, cracking like dawn over a sleepy village.

Fresh

Fresh In the hush of dawn, the dew‑kissed grass exhales, A scent of earth, of green, of morning’s first sigh. The baker’s oven sighs warm loaves onto the counter, Crust crackling like autumn leaves

Major

On the sun‑lit drill square, A Major strides, his shoulders squared, His voice a major triad, clear and strong, Calling troops to march in steady throng.

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives