Poetry

Rush

Rush At the tick of a five‑o’clock metronome, the city unfurls its iron heart. A lorry pulls by the car‑park, doors wide, its stubborn breath of petrol draped over the crowd. Queue after

Spotlight

In the dimming theatre’s hush a single beam cuts the velvet dark, a thin silver seam. A lone light, a target, a daring claim, It calls the actors to the stage’s frame. With reverence,

Thanksgiving

In the quiet glow of autumn’s amber light, we gather on a day that’s not our own, but a feast we share with friends from far‑off, where gratitude takes centre stage. A golden bird,

Stand by Me

Stand By Me In the mist of the Thames‑side dawn, I stand with a lad in his coat of worn‑out grey, The city wakes slow, its streets “queue‑fast” along, Yet our rhythm is quiet,

Dogville

Dogville In the wold where the old oaks creak, Dogville sleeps on a misty lane. Paws tap the cobbles, stray‑bark, And the wind stirs the midnight grain. A narrow lane of tea‑shop greens, Where

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