Poetry

Muggy

In a world that wears its mud like a second skin, the air drips with the quiet hesitation of a London fog that clings to the tram and the shop‑fronts of the

Rocky

Rocky On the mist‑hung rocks of the North coast, a lone figure sweeps the shore— Rocky, a lad of pin‑point grit, his boots sunk deep in the bleached stone. He watches the gulls race the

Logan

On the green of the lane where the old hedgerows stand, Lives a young lad named Logan, with a heart so grand. He strolls beneath the oaks, where leeks grow in the

The Sound of Music

The Sound of Music In a garden where the morning mist roams, the air is draped with a muted, silver dome. A piano, tired of birch‑trimmed shafts, whispers its chords, breaking dawn’s soft drafts.

Before Sunset

Before Sunset At the lip of the evening the day gives up a trembling green, the blue‑shaped cloud quivers – The Thames, in its forgotten silence, rubs a blue‐white hand over the old stone. A

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