Poetry

Ankle

Ankle In the hush of a London dawn I step, The cobbles echo, a subtle, honest thump, A soldier’s joint where road meets brick, The ankle whispers when the day is slick. I crisscross terraced

Planet of the Apes

Planet of the Apes When the sky turns bruised‑purple and the trees begin to speak, the colonies of primates have found a new world to seek. A colourless dawn, the quarry

Eaten

Eaten In a quiet kitchen, at the bend of a cobbled street, the air is damp with crumbs and evening’s first retreat. A platter waits, cold as dawn, in the corner of the

Smell

Ode to the Ordinary Whiff The early morning in a sleepy English town sidles on my tongue with a scent of damp stone, the dampness of the ancient oak, the chalky dust below, a

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? In the dim-lit living room of suburban England the scent of wet wool and burnt tea clings to the walls, and on the back‑back sofa, those torn‑up people

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