Poetry

Scoff

In the quiet of the pub, a scoff was heard, A derisive laugh that slipped from cracked lips, Like rain on cobblestones it stirred the curd Of cheer, and turned the mirth to

Savor

Savour the hush of morning’s first light, When dew clings like silver on grass, And the world exhales a quiet delight— A gentle reminder that moments can last. Savour the taste of

Dolly

On a dusty shelf in Granny’s attic, A rag‑clad dolly waits with stitched‑on smile, Her button eyes have seen a hundred Christmases, And lullabies sung in a soft, Scottish while. She’s tucked

Paint

Upon the easel, blank and white, A brush in hand, the artist takes flight— Swaths of cerulean, vermilion, gold, Spread across the waiting canvas bold. Each stroke a whisper, each hue a

Scent

A whisper lingers on the breeze, A subtle hint of rosemary, It drifts through gardens, past the trees, Awakening the quiet reverie. The scent of rain on cobblestones, Petrichor, a damp perfume, It weaves

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