Poetry

Cruel

cruel In the grey hush of a London morning the rain boils the street‑lamps and drips into the boots of strangers who hurry past without a glance. The wind is cruel, it steals

Whiplash

Whiplash It came at the bite of a turn, a sudden lift of a U‑turn out of the heat‑spun lane of Bloomsbury, a pulse‑crack through chrome and glass, the shuffle of furs in

The Departed

The Departed In the damp hush of a June dawn, when the fog still shrouds the lane, the queue of the funeral carrows up, a quiet line of soul‑laden grain. Cars pull up,

Dusky

Dusky In the lane where the flick‑rising lamps loose a amber dust on cobbled stone, the day folds itself in that soft, mellow dusk, a dusky hush that drapes the sky’s own bones.

The Prestige

The Prestige The night unfurls an ancient stage, where silver‑laced lights swallow fame, and two tall figures, black and white, whisper envy into the night. The first, a gentleman of mystique, expects the crowd

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