Poetry

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,

Newly

Newly The seed splits open, barely seen, A thread of green where grey had been. Not loudly, not with fanfare's call, But softly, simply—newly, all. The dewdrop clings to spider's thread, A diamond where nothing was

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