Poetry

Brush

In the quiet corner of the studio, a paint‑brush waits, its bristles still, ready to coax colour from the tube, to sweep the canvas with a lover's thrill. Each hair, a whisper

Close

Close Not the shut of door or book, But the steam that ghosts your cup As you lean, just fraction, near While the kettle sighs its favour. Shoulders almost touching, slow Like two biscuits in a

Rayon

Rayon drapes in silken sigh, A spun‑light veil of humble dye, Born of wood and chemical grace, It whispers soft, yet leaves no trace. In every thread, the forest sighs— A modest cloth where nature

Whisk

In the quiet kitchen, steel curls and sings, A whisk of wire, a dancer’s rings. It twirls through cream, it lifts the white, Turning batter into morning light. Each loop a promise,

Quote

In the hush of ink‑stained pages, a whisper gathers in inverted commas— a quotation, a borrowed breath, held tenderly between two slim, upright marks. We lift a line from Shakespeare’s glow, from Austen’s

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives