Poetry

Gravy

On a Sunday table, the great old kitchen brims, the pan of beef, the kettle running, a swirl of butter‑rich taint – the gravy, the living memory of a country’s hearth. It rises like

Hacksaw Ridge

In the hush of the white‑crashed plain, a ridge of thorns beneath a cold sky, where the world remembers the clang of steel, Desmond walked on bones, unarmed, alone. The war, a relentless pageant

Flute

The silver tongue of air unheard, a slender bow that sings in still, where crystal notes in quiet reverie are coaxed from a luthier’s dream. Its wooden heart, a gentle sigh, a breath

12 Years a Slave

The Long Span In a village of iron‑bound hearts, the land was a grid of green and bruise; his name, a syllable of iron, was carved into the oak of the days that

Waist

At the Waist In the silent span where shoulder meets hip, the waist holds stories, a quiet, measured script. It's the seam in a dress, the buckle on a coat, a whisper of a

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