Poetry

Inner

Inner In the quiet chambers of the mind, Where thoughts unwind like soft-spun thread, A lantern flickers, gentle, kind— Its glow the secret places fed. Here feelings nest, both fierce and

Easel

On a quiet studio floor, the easel stands— a humble wooden frame, steady and grand. It cradles the canvas, a patient host, holding each brushstroke, each whispered ghost. From dawn’s soft light

Sandy

Sandy whispers beneath the sun‑kissed shore, Each grain a memory the tide has stored. Golden dunes stretch, a soft, undulating quilt, Where children’s laughter and seagulls tilt. Footprints fade, yet the sand

Wreak

In the quiet of midnight’s sigh, a restless wind begins to wreak its ancient chore upon the stone, whispering secrets that the old walls speak. It wreaks a dance of rusted leaves, tossing

Bossy

She strides the office floor, a crown of confidence, Her voice a clarion, sharp as morning dew, Demanding order in each whispered sentence, Turning chaos into tidy, polished view. Colleagues brace beneath

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives