Poetry

Terse

Terse In quiet rooms where words are few, Each syllable a measured thread, A whisper cuts the lingering hue Like morning frost on garden shed. A terse remark — sharp, clean, precise — Falls like a

Organ

In the vaulted hush of stone‑clad nave, A pipe‑organ sighs, its breath of bronze and pine, Each stop a whisper, each rank a wave Of sound that lifts the soul toward the divine.

Chaos

In the hush before the storm, Chaos unfurls its wild refrain, A tapestry torn where order’s torn, Yet beauty hides in fractured pain. Colours clash in reckless dance, Thoughts collide like thunder’s roar, From

Skier

On frosted pistes she carves her line, A silent dance upon the white, Each turn a breath of alpine air, Her skis whisper like pine. The lift hums low, a steady song, She

Bevel

On the quiet bench where timber sighs, A bevel waits, a slanted whisper, Its edge—soft‑cut, a gentle rise— Turns plain board into light‑kissed glister. In joiner’s hand the plane does glide, Shaving off

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