Poetry

Grout

The grout's a humble, gritty mate, Not flashy, but it holds the slate. In bathroom white or kitchen blue, It's where the patient work comes through. You mix it up, a paste so thick, With

Blame

In the hush of evening’s amber glow, A whisper slips through the cracked pane— A thin, relentless thread of blame, That winds itself around each vein. It settles on the shoulders of

Regal

Regal crowns of amber light, Glistening upon a velvet night, Sceptre raised in quiet pride, Where history and honour glide. Palace halls with tapestries deep, Whisper secrets that kings keep, Throne of oak, in

Riper

Riper than the morning dew on autumn’s hedge, The pear swells soft, its skin a blush of rose— Each curve a promise, each sigh a pledge That sweetness waits where patient amber glows.

Scold

Scolded whispers drift like winter rain, Across the kitchen tiles, a stern refrain; Mum’s voice, a firm and fluttering broom, Sweeps away the crumbs of careless gloom. Yet in the echo, love’s soft tide

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives