Poetry

Fancy

She wore her fancy in her thoughts, not lace, A tea-stained reverie, a quiet grace. While others chased the shiny, new, and bright, She found her joy in soft, diffused light. No

Atlas

Atlas In quiet rooms where paper sighs, An atlas lies, a world in fold, Its pages whisper ancient cries, Of mountains brave and seas untold. Each continent a coloured chart, Where rivers trace the amber line, And

Grain

In the quiet hush of dawn, the fields awake, A sea of amber whispering soft and low, Each stalk a promise, each ear a partake Of earth’s patient bounty, gently in a row.

Sauna

In the hush of timber‑clad walls, heat rises like a quiet hymn, steam curling through the pine‑scented air, a soft veil that wraps the skin. Bench‑worn bodies sit in patient stillness, muscles unwind,

Boast

In the market square he stands, chest out, voice loud, A trumpeter of triumph, his tale unbowed. He boasts of climbs no mountain ever saw, Of riches piled like clouds in a summer’s

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives