Poetry

Vogue

Vogue In the bruised‑green glow of a London twilight, the nearest catwalk unfurls beneath the City’s gable, its lights a choir of silver—slick and startling— calling all who dare to taste the season’s breath. Vogue

Rain Man

Rain Man Rain falls in quiet panes of glass, Murmuring the old London canals, Its droplets like whispered thoughts of Two brothers left in the same storm. In the gutter of an endless highway, A man

Gunky

Gunky In a hidden lane beneath a bruised‑blue sky, London’s gutters drip a gunky lullaby. A wretched colour, clotted with old peat, Its misted breath all the cradle of a spate. The runners

The Bourne Ultimatum

The Bourne Ultimatum In the smouldering mists of a London dawn, he strides with purpose, half‑in shadow— Jason Bourne, that ghost‑threaded phantom born, fighting with the world’s forgotten pawn‑ed list. The defence marshal’s flickering television, shows

Black Swan

Silver ripples on a midnight lake, the air mist‑clad, the wind a whisper of footfall, a lone feathered silhouette cuts the quiet water— a black swan, whose graceful hush lights the dark. Her plumage,

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