Poetry

Flood warning

Flood Warning The sky folds over the river‑bend, clouds like a tired violin, and in the hush of a damp morning the siren crackles—a low, deep long‑howl. Its warning is not a song but a

Remit

Remit In the dust‑laden post‑office of Southbridge street, I hand the cheque to a clerk who asks, “What’s the remittance, eh?” His fingers trace the faded stamp—BACS, CHAPS, a sailor’s beat, The pound sterling

Gruff

A Gruff Wisp on a London Morn In the hiss of the fog‑laden streets, a man of gravel steps into the square; his voice comes from the gut, not the cuffs, a rough‑spoken blur

Plead

Plead In the quiet tear‑ful hours after a London drizzle, A heart stands before the heavens and does not flinch; With fingers back‑knocked, it speaks, “Plea to you, dear god, Let me, though small,

Hovel

In the quiet hush of a cobble‑strewn lane A humble hovel stands, weathered but true, Its roof, a patchwork of blue‑tinted slate, And the wind, it whistles what it will through the woodwork. Within

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