Poetry

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Under the Sommelier of St. Thomas In the stone‑walled wards that breathe like hinges, where the fluorescent buzz hums a monotonous hymn, he came—McMurphy, the smuggler of swagger to a place that drank in

Singin' in the Rain

Singin’ in the Rain In the first cry of the afternoons, the streets of London glimmer, black‑top cobbles bubbling beneath the mist, the drizzle a silver frame. A gentle hush swells around the

Shoal

The Quiet Shoal In the low‑light hush of a moon‑kissed cove, A shoal lies ballast, shyless, still— A mass of silvery figures, veined, they'd rove, Panoramic though they clutch the sea so still. The waves

It's a Wonderful Life

It’s a Wonderful Life The kettle whistles its morning sigh, a faint steam‑cloud unfurled over the kitchen table, and in that quiet, the world holds its breath for a cup of tea and the

Hasty

The Hasty Clock In the early, blush‑gold hour of the train station, a figure darts, a wheeze through the queue, her perfume a rogue bloom in a corridor full of clipboard‑tucked commuters. She hurries,

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