Poetry

Haunt

In the mist‑draped lane where the old stone walls sigh, A whisper of footsteps lingers—soft, yet insistent— A shade that refuses to part, a memory that will not fade, Haunting the quiet cobbles

Brand

Upon the shelf, a name takes hold, A whispered promise, bright and bold. It is not merely mark or sign, But stories spun in cotton twine. From factory floor to city street, It walks in

Moldy

On the windowsill, a patch of green‑black mouldy bloom, A fusty whisper where the rain has seeped and loomed. It creeps like quiet lace across the old wooden pane, Turning fresh bread to

Blink

A blink – a whisper of an eye’s swift sigh, A fleeting pause that stitches night to day. In that brief shutter, worlds collide, then fly, Like starlight caught within a breathless sway.

Plain

On the quiet plain where horizons sigh, A sea of grass rolls soft beneath the sky, Gold‑tinged stalks whisper in the gentle breeze, While distant hills keep watch like ancient trees. No

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