Poetry

There Will Be Blood

There Will Be Blood In the bleak moors of California’s dust‑stained earth, a young‑brisk preacher clings to the flick‑vast faith of a bitter sermon that burns as surely as the furnace’s hearth for the

Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park – A Dream in the Cotswolds? An ode in British metre, a tongue‑tied labyrinth of stone In the misty swath of the Isle of Nublar, Beneath a sky that yawned like

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (a ballad in the spirit of a classic quest) In the crushing Mid‑western dusk the hills of Sierra rise, Their stone‑and‑sand cloaked wealth beneath a

Prism

A thin glass triangle, quiet in its stance, It splits the sun’s warm beam into a spectrum. Each face a doorway, a silent, careful glance, Where white light fractures into colour’s rhythm. It whispers

Christmas Day

On the first of December, the sky turns up‑turned, The brittish air pre‑filled with the scent of pine, The tinsel on the tree, the fruities browned and spun, A glow that, though winter‑tight,

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