Poetry

Casino

In the heart of the city, night descends, A velvet glow from glass and chrome, Where every reel and slot machine hums With promises that never end. The croupier’s voice, a calm decree, Whispers over

The Sixth Sense

The Sixth Sense In the hush of midnight trains, a whisper calls my ear, Not of wind or timetable, but the pulse that runs near. A shimmer emerald between the long‑plotted lines, Like a

The Thing

The Thing In the pale glow of a forgotten harbour, where cold iron waves drop silver bruises on the earth, there lingers a shape, a silent, thin‑spanning hush— the Thing that shivers beneath every

Spool

Spool A twisted wheel that keeps the world on track, A silent keeper of skin‑thick tape, A battered little cylinder turned in the flicker of a lamp, Its quiet face a guardian of the

Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve the streets grow still, the firelight flickers, honey‑sweet and old – a hush of wool, a winter blue, a dream, and everywhere the quiet hums like gold. The market

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