Poetry

The Sting

The Sting A bright‑blue flash in a meadow’s hush, the quiet hum of a bee in spring, its wing‑beat a whisper of fate— there, shadowed over a, red‑rimmed, petal‑ed ring. The sting: a single, glinting

Up

Up Up, the word that carries our breath on the wind, the first stretch of light over a town’s cobbled edge, where the sky greets the Thames in soft azure— a promise in every

Siren

In the hush of the moor at midnight’s bloom, a phantom shouts in silver wind – the siren calls, an echo wrapped in mist, a tender, torn refrain that takes the heart, makes

Vertigo

Vertigo A turn, a wobble, the world tilting in a silent polite swell—a teacup from the kitchen, spun by an unseen wind that whispers over the back of my neck. I clutch the rail of

Decor

The Quiet Language of Decor In the quiet of a London flat, the wallpaper sighs with an old‑world grammy. Stretched across the walls, a linen‑sheen gala, reflected by lamp‑glory and chrome‑favour. A brass lamp—its matt‑black

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