Poetry

Madly

Madly we chase the sunrise, With hearts that beat like drumming rain, In streets of London's grey, Where thoughts collide like trains. We laugh, we weep, we dance insane, Our laughter rings like

Trail

On the quiet edge of the wood, a narrow trail winds through amber leaves, soft underfoot as the morning mist lingers like a sigh over the ferns. It threads between ancient oaks, their

Toast

Golden slices greet the morning light, Crisp and warm, a humble delight. Slathered in butter, jam, or marmalade, A simple toast, the day’s first parade. From the toaster’s gentle sigh to the

Crisp

Crisp as a winter morning over the Highlands, the air bites clean, a fresh‑scented sigh. An apple’s snap, its juice a bright surprise, each crunch a chorus under grey‑streaked sky. Bacon sizzles

Prose

In the hush of dawn, prose unfolds, A steady river, broad and gold, No strict metre binds its flow, Yet carries dreams the heart must know. It labours not in verse’s tight

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