Poetry

Pitch

On the cricket field, the pitch lies low, A strip of earth where fortunes flow, Hardened by sun and stubborn rain, It tests the bat, it guards the strain. The bowler’s arm

Tripe

Ode to Tripe In bustling market stalls, where aromas blend, A humble dish awaits the daring friend: Tripe, the cow’s soft lining, blanched and white, Simmered slow with onions, herbs, and bite. It

Shush

Shush! A soft sigh slips between the pages, A hush that curls like steam From a teacup left to cool, And in that quiet the world leans closer, Listening to the rustle of thoughts That dare

Whose

Whose fingers trace the moon’s soft veil, Whose sighs become the evening’s sigh, Whose laughter rolls down cobbled lanes, Whose tears collect in rain‑kissed gutters. Whose thoughts are whispered in the fog, Whose

Weedy

Weedy thoughts drift like thin green tendrils, Through cracked paving stones of a city lane, They clutch at the sun with pale, hesitant fingers, Seeking a crack where light might remain. In

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