Poetry

Brute

In the hush of dawn, a brute awakes, Muscles coiled like spring‑tight rope, His breath a low, relentless rumble— Earth trembles where his footsteps gape. He roams the moor, a savage grace, Eyes

Meter

In the quiet workshop of the world we trace, A silver thread called metre, straight and true— It measures gardens, streets, and outer space, Binding the vast to the familiar hue. Yet

Skiff

In the quiet harbour’s amber glow, A slender skiff drifts, slow and low, Its wooden hull a whispered tale, Of tide‑kissed journeys and the gull’s soft wail. Oars dip in rhythm, silver‑bright, Cutting

Scale

On the kitchen table, a brass scale rests, Its polished arms like quiet sentinels. A gentle sigh of metal as it settles, Balancing the world in grammes and ounces. Feathers of flour

Chalk

In the hushed classroom, a solitary stick, Of white calcium, humble and quick, It glides across the blackboard’s dark face, Leaving trails of thought in fleeting grace. The teacher’s hand, a steady

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives