Poetry

Spiny

Spiny In a hedgerow turned to stone, a thistle stands alone, Its green‑green crown of bristles, a prickly, noble crown. Each needle, a tiny knife that guards its treasured root, A silent promise of

The Green Mile

The Green Mile In a dim corridor of iron and bruised floorboards, the pale light of dawn slinks westward, refusing to shine. There, a green‑tinted line of emotion and doubt surfaces like a slow‑blooming

Allot

Allot In the quiet council chamber, the mayor’s hand draws a line on the old map, and with a measured voice, she allots the plot to a child who will pow whitt‐off his

Back to the Future

Back to the Future In a wiry pop‑py' '70s town we set our course, Doc Brown, his brilliant mind, swore, “It’s no flop – it’s a rescue of the colour

The Pianist

The Pianist In the hush of the cathedral‑shaped hall, the keys gleam, a sea of ebony and ivory, whispering thin, bright corridors of sound. She sits, the pianist, fingers like wisteria vines— sweeping,

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives