Poetry

Mover

Mover In the hush of dawn, a lorry sighs, its engine low, a steady pulse, while cardboard boxes stack like dreams waiting for the next street’s promise. He lifts the weight of wooden frames, the creak

Creed

Creed In quiet corners of the heart we lay A simple thread that weaves the days— A whispered promise, steady, true, A creed that guides what we pursue. Not carved in

Waver

Waver In the hush of morning light, a flag does waver, Its cloth a trembling sigh against the cool, pale sky, Each thread a quiet pulse, a soft, indecisive shiver— A dance

Dowdy

Dowdy In a small terraced flat on a drizzling afternoon, She hangs a cardigan, its wool a muted grey, Buttons missing, seams frayed – the very picture of dowdy, Yet it bears the scent

Clock

In the hallway’s quiet corner stands the old oak clock, Its brass face gleaming like a silvered pond at dawn, The pendulum sways, a steady sigh of time, Each swing a whispered promise,

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