Poetry

Green Book

Green Book In springtime’s embrace, the page is locked in leaves of the earth’s own green, A parchment map that hums the quiet pledge of “Here on the road you’ll see.” Its ink,

The Wolf of Wall Street

In the glassy tower of London’s own skyline, a shadow slips past the bidding of markets, lean‑muscled whisper, a wolf in a vest‑and‑tie. He stalks the boardroom, his howls in the

Batch

The Batch In the quiet kitchen a stack of scones rises their golden skins a promise against the cold. The oven hums, a low‑melodic pace that devises each crumb a story that the heat

The Father

The Father In the quiet of the afternoon when the light drifts soft through the blinds, there stands a man of stalwart grace – a sturdy oak whose roots run deep in

The Truman Show

The Truman Show In the hush before the first cue, a sunrise climbs the horizon, crackling with the colour of a beach that never rots, ever plastic. A cosy town of hills and streets

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