Poetry

Posse

The Posse In the fog‑kissed dawn of the West End, a rag‑tag cadre of lads and girls gathers— a dull‑clad posse, not of the law. They are the rapturous choir of the local pub, the

Judgment at Nuremberg

Judgement at Nuremberg In stone‑lined halls where German marble met the lonely thrum of a V‑Bow verdict, the great tribunal kept its watch— a row of carved benches that rang with the echo

Heat

Heat – the quiet, restless pulse that sways through London’s gravel and the moor’s broad green where the sun, a naked clock, ticks forward and every shadow is a sigh that holds a piece

Sitar

In the quiet of a London tea‑room, gold‑shimmering strings reach for the sky, the sitar sighs, a whisper of sitar rhythm, a soft roop through harp‑ged channels of night. Its neck bows

Scarface

Scarface (A British Ode) In a dimly‑lit cinema, the opening credits flash, The glow of neon on a black‑and‑white screen, The roar of a trumpet, and a hungry heart’s crash— Scarface breathes

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