Poetry

Stead

In the quiet field where hedges sigh, My stead lies firm beneath the sky. Not where the restless lorries roar, But where the gate has creaked before. Here footprints fade in softened

Voice

In the hush of dawn, a voice awakes, Soft as mist that drifts across the lake, It hums through reeds, a gentle sigh, A lullaby that paints the sky. It carries words

Lilac

In the quiet corner of an English garden, Lilac buds unfurl their soft‑purple sighs, Their fragrant tresses draping over stone, A perfume that drifts on evening breezes. Each cluster hangs like a

Droll

A droll old gent in a bowler hat, Strolled down the lane with a cheeky grin, He chatted to sparrows, tipped his flat cap, While a squirrel offered him a gin. The

Retro

In dim-lit rooms where vinyl sighs, The crackle sings of yesteryear’s prize, Cassette winds its magnetic thread, While pixel ghosts in Atari’s shed Glitch neon dreams of pastel hue, A retro heartbeat, pure and true.

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