Poetry

Milk

Milk On a cool spring morning I wait for the milkman’s wheel, Gleaming in his coat, a brass‑brushed, silver seal. The churn of the old Milker’s splash in the curtained bake, Kindred hums of

The Atlantic Ocean

Atlantic, Brine‑Scented Beneath a skies‑washed, salt‑white horizon, The Atlantic throws its wide‑armed braiding of waves To the unit coast of a very old, steadfast nation, Where trade‑laced gulls swoop across the horizon’s frame. The monsoon‑lit

London

London On the banks of the restless Thames, where iron‐clad ships dare kiss the sky, the city drifts in mist‑shrouded breath, a rust‑tinged prism of history and glass. Big Ben, standing in minuted silence, tells time

The sound of rain

The drizzle sets its lullaby on cobbled streets at dusk – a soft, endless pitter‑patter that curls up in the heart. Each raindrop, a silver note, notes played on iron rails, echoing through the

Christmas music

Jingles at the Hearth In the hush of a December night when the hearth’s glow casts a briar‑twining glow, the strains of a choir rise, soft and bright, and the old carols that all

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