Poetry

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

Widen

Widen the road that winds through misty hills, Where ancient oaks stand guard and whisper low, Their branches stretch like arms to greet the sky, Inviting travellers to let their worries go.

Shaft

A narrow shaft of dawn slips through the blinds, A silken thread that pulls the night apart. It climbs the stone‑worn stair, a quiet wind, And paints the hallway with a trembling heart.

Dolly

On a dusty shelf in Granny’s attic, A rag‑clad dolly waits with stitched‑on smile, Her button eyes have seen a hundred Christmases, And lullabies sung in a soft, Scottish while. She’s tucked

Paint

Upon the easel, blank and white, A brush in hand, the artist takes flight— Swaths of cerulean, vermilion, gold, Spread across the waiting canvas bold. Each stroke a whisper, each hue a

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