Poetry

Awful

Awful— the sky cracks open like a stale biscuit, its grey‑blue hue bleeding into the pavement, while a distant lorry groans, its exhaust curling like cold tea left too long in the pot.

Donor

A donor stands in quiet hall, With folded hands and steady gaze— Not seeking fame, nor craved applause, But giving life in modest ways. A vein may yield a ruby tide, A kidney’s

Float

Upon the still, blue‑tinged pond, A feathered leaf begins to float— A soft, slow pirouette of thought, Where water sighs and light devotes. It drifts past reeds that whisper low, Past minnows flicker,

Trait

Trait A quiet seed in mind, it grows— A habit, bent, or favoured pose, Whether it be the patient tread Of one who waits in every queue, Or sudden spark that lights the

Manor

In the hush of twilight’s amber gleam, The manor stands, a stone‑bound dream, Its turrets rise where ivy clings, A silent hymn the soft wind sings. Pan‑glassed windows catch the waning light, Reflecting

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