Poetry

Karat

Karat On a Friday, when the week unwinds, We chat of glint and gleam, of gold that shines, Not in the weight of stones, but in the karat line— A measure fine, where twenty‑four

Bless

A blessing isn't just a word said low When someone sneezes, "Bless you!" though It's in the baker's spare warm scone Saved for you when you're alone. It's "Ta, love!" from the

Truce

In quiet fields where thunder once did roar, Two weary camps lay breathless, side by side; The guns fell mute, the angry smoke no more, And whispered hopes began to swell with pride.

Loamy

Loamy Earth In the hush of dawn, the fields exhale, a loamy breath, dark and warm, each clod a soft, crumbly sigh, rich with the decay of autumn leaves. The farmer’s

First

First light spills across the quiet street, A hush of morning, soft and barely sweet. The world awakes in muted, amber hue, Each breath a promise, fresh and new. First steps on

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