Poetry

The Princess Bride

A Tale as Tender as the Dawn In the quiet of the Sunday garden, Father speaks, His voice a crackling camp‑fire glow, Lifting the rose‑blossomed map of a far‑off land, Where Buttercup walks in

Hoist

The Hoist’s Quiet Dialogue By the edge of the Thames, at dusk’s pale‑golden bend, the iron belly of colligated steel rolls awake, sling‑odd iron‑links humming a low‑key chord. These quiet towers, in a half‑dark

Guardians of the Galaxy

Guardians of the Galaxy – a Distant Chord In the cold vastness where stars are born, They sail a rag‑tag ship, its hull a coloured scar. Our Peter Quill, a martian‑born charm, Broadcasts old

Roman Holiday

Roman Holiday In the hush of a Tuscan dawn, the city wakes from ancient slumbers, street‑lamps flicker on the cobbles like amber stars. The Tiber rolls, silver‑lined, an old cousin’s lullaby serenading the papal palaces. The

Mogul

Mogul In a glass tower that all London’s gaze follows, A man sits at the apex, where the skyline grows; His hand quivers not with dread but with promise, The ink on his cheque

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