Poetry

Forty

Forty candles flicker, a modest blaze, On the mantle where the years have lain, Each flame a whisper of the days That slipped through fingers like soft rain. In the garden, roses

Sense

Sense – a quiet compass in the breast, A whisper of the world that lingers, Not merely sight, nor sound, nor taste, But the subtle thread that weaves them all. It is

Match

On a damp kitchen shelf, a solitary match lies, its wooden shaft a humble brown, the sulphur tip a shy surprise. When struck against the rough‑hewn side, a sudden flare ignites— a tiny

Price

Price In market stalls where voices rise, A quiet ledger holds the ties— Each coin exchanged, a whispered trade, The worth of things that hands have made. Not only gold nor silvered gleam, But

Psalm

In the hushed nave where morning light pools pale, A psalm rises, soft as the sigh of summer rain, Each line a thread of wool woven through the stone, Binding the faithful to

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