Poetry

Motor

In the hush of dawn the motor sighs, A restless heart of steel and chrome, It drinks the petrol, warm and wise, And turns the world into its home. Cogs turn like

Grist

Grist for the mill of quiet mornings, Golden kernels waiting in the sack, Each grain a promise, each husk a story— The miller’s hands turn patience into crackle. In the stone‑wheeled hush,

Bingo

In the bingo hall the lights are low, A chorus of voices hums soft and slow, Each number called, a fluttered hope, Daubers hover, eager to cope. When “House!” is shouted, joy does flare, A

Geeky

In a room lit by the glow of LED strips, Where wires coil like vines around a Raspberry Pi, A geek sits cross‑legged, eyes fixed on code— Python scripts humming like a quiet

Dress

In the quiet atelier, silk whispers against the loom, A drape of midnight, stitched with threads of twilight’s gloom. Each seam a secret, each fold a quiet sigh, A frock that moves like

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