Poetry

Lilac

In the quiet corner of an English garden, Lilac buds unfurl their soft‑purple sighs, Their fragrant tresses draping over stone, A perfume that drifts on evening breezes. Each cluster hangs like a

Awful

Awful— the sky cracks open like a stale biscuit, its grey‑blue hue bleeding into the pavement, while a distant lorry groans, its exhaust curling like cold tea left too long in the pot.

Badge

A tiny disc of metal, bright and keen, Fastened upon a lapel, a cap, a chest— It bears the mark of service, of the unseen, A quiet promise stitched in silver‑threaded vest.

Homer

In the mist‑laden hills of ancient Ionia, Where olive groves whisper beneath a sapphire sky, A blind bard named Homer wanders, staff in hand, His voice a thunder that rolls across the ages. He

Heist

Midnight cloaks the city’s quiet streets, A whispered plan, a silent crew of thieves, They glide like shadows 'cross the wet pavement, Their eyes fixed on the vault’s impregnable weave. The lorry

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