Poetry

Craft

In quiet workshops, where wood and thread entwine, Hands trace the grain, the stitch, the steady line— A shaping thought becomes a tactile song, Each measured cut a patient, quiet throng. From clay that

Gleam

Gleam In the hush of early dawn, a silver thread Slips through the mist‑kissed hedgerow, soft and shy, A quiet promise that the night has shed, Whilst sleepy fields begin to sigh. It dances on

Overt

Overt as the stain upon your shirt, That bloomed at lunch—a puddle of hurt— You dab and dab with fervent prayer, While strangers stare and point right there.

Laser

In a quiet lab the night hums low, A thin, fierce beam of light begins to glow— A laser, pure and steady, draws its line, Slicing darkness with a photon’s design. It

Whiny

Whiny whispers drift through the afternoon, A plaintive sigh that lingers in the air— Each complaint a soft, persistent tune, That drags the sunshine into sullen glare. It slides across the kitchen

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