Poetry

Shout

In the hush of morning mist, A single voice can break the hush— A shout that tears the quiet veil, Sending ripples through the vale. It climbs the hill, it slides the

Prone

Prone upon the heath, the wind sighs low, A shadow spreads where thistles grow, My thoughts, like weary sheep, lie prone, Waiting for the sun to claim its own.

Carve

In wood and stone the quiet hand will carve, A whispered story in each grain and groove. With chisel keen, the craftsman's heart does stir, Turning raw timber into forms that live. Each stroke

Joint

On the carvery slab the joint of beef does rest, A marbled canvas, deep and rich in colour, The butcher’s labour yields a tender feast, While rosemary and thyme perfume the air. It is

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

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