Poetry

Balsa

Balsa whispers through the workshop air, A feather‑soft timber, light as prayer. Its grain, a lattice of honeyed grace, Cradles dreams that dare to take up space. From humble planks it shapes

Brash

Bold and brash the summer sun ascends, A splash of brass upon the pond that bends. He laughs too loud in market streets, his words A crash of colour, bright as tea‑time curds.

Grief

In the hush of dawn, a quiet ache settles like mist upon the pane, where laughter once rang bright and clear, now echoes fade to soft refrain. Grief wears a coat of

Shorn

Shorn In the hush of early morning, A ewe stands bare, her wool withdrawn, The pale sun glints on fleece‑less back, As though the heavens had been sheared. We, too, are

Plank

A weathered plank lies upon the shore, its grain a map of time’s own lore. Once part of a ship that cut the spray, now it dreams of tides that fade away.

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