Poetry

Potholes

Potholes Beneath the bright‑lit glass of a balmy evening, a silver road betrays its quiet deceiving. A splash‑thick bubble of pothole hides, a careless dent where cars and lorries glide. The

Goldfinches

In the hush of a spring‑morndey hedge A flutter of gold lifts hue from the hedge. With feathers bright as a dawn‑kissed rose, The goldfinch gleams where the seedlings grow. Its beak, a tiny

Boats on the river

On the winding riverbank the dawn unfurls, A silver hush of mist that curls and curls, The river’s breath in quiet blue, And boats that glide, their hulls a subtle hue. A barge, its

Rhubarb crumble

Rhubarb Crumble In a flour‑streaked kitchen, the afternoon sighs I snip the bright stalks, a ruby‑red surprise. The spoon dives into room‑temperature jam, Pastel‑yellowed leaves arranged in a caramel‑clad plan. Baking, with the

Computers

The Tangled Pulse In the dim glow of a quiet office the silver shells of servers hum, a low‑frequency lullaby of blinking LEDs that sings in silicon and binary. The desk‑mounted laptop whirls its fan, its

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