Poetry

Crank

In the workshop’s dim‑lit hush, The old crank turns with stubborn gush, A rusted arm that grinds the gear, Singing low for all who hear. Though folk may call him odd, a crank, He keeps

Siege

Siege Upon the grey dawn the banners hang low, A shroud of silence over stone and snow, The enemy’s eyes, like hawks, scan the wall, While trumpets muffle the distant call. Ramparts stand firm, their

Troll

Beneath the moss‑clad stone of an old railway bridge, A troll lurks where the river sighs and the willows dip, His skin the colour of peat after a long autumn rain, Eyes like

Acute

Acute In geometry’s quiet gaze, an angle sharp, Less than ninety, keen and bright, It points to corners where lines embark, A sliver of truth in pure light. Acute is also

Triad

Triad Three notes converge in quiet harmony, A chord that sings of balance, whole and true: Root, third, and fifth—each voice a loyalty, Together forming hues both rich and new. Like

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