Poetry

Brood

In quiet fields where morning light does creep, A speckled hen does guard her feathered brood, Each chick a pulse of life, a promise deep, Beneath the sky's soft, ever‑changing mood. They

Serif

In the hushed halls of print where thoughts take flight, The serif rests – a modest, faithful light. Each tiny foot, a genteel, restrained refrain, Guides the reader’s eye with quiet, sure domain.

Basil

Ode to Basil In a sun‑kissed pot upon the sill, A spray of green leans softly, still— Its leaves, a tender jade, release A perfume sweet, a fragrant peace. When summer’s heat begins

Slick

Slick On a rain‑kissed Monday morning, the city’s streets turn a glossy, mirror‑black, a slick of petrol‑spilled gleam, where lorries sigh and double‑decker buses glide, their tyres humming a low‑tone jazz on the wet

Oasis

In the hush of sun‑scorched dunes, Where the wind sings low and thin, An oasis blooms, a secret tune, A splash of green where hopes begin. Palm fronds sway like quiet fans, Offering

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