Poetry

Belle

The Belle of Belgravia In fog‑kissed mornings when the Thames does sigh, She walks the pavement, light as whispered lace, A belle whose smile could coax the greyest sky To blush a

Llanelli Town

Llanelli Town Upon the banks where Loughor sighs, The town awakes beneath Welsh skies— Red‑brick terraces, market stalls, Where brass bands play and passion calls. The scar‑touched steelworks, once a roar, Now whisper stories

Cubit

The cubit, old as desert sand, A forearm’s span from elbow to hand, In temples raised and markets bustling, It measured stone, it measured hustling. Through Babylon’s bright ziggurat towers, Through Egypt’s awe‑inspiring

Begun

Begun In the hush before dawn, the sky’s pale blush has just begun – a shy, amber sigh that stretches over the rooftops, painting the chimneys with liquid gold. A lorry rumbles down

Cycle

The Cycle Turning round the year’s great wheel, Spring unfurls its tender green, Summer sings in golden heat, Autumn sighs, a copper sheen, Winter draws a quiet veil, And the cycle starts again. On two

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