Poetry

Prate

In Cavendish Square, beneath the lime-tree's shade, Where chattering magpies trade their foolish brigade, A prattling crowd gathers, loud and unreasoned, Their tongues like windmills, by nothing fueled or grounded. They prate

Dreck

In the alley where the night smells faint, Lies a heap of dreck—discarded, bent, Torn pages, broken toys, and rusted tin, A motley chorus of the things we’ve binned. Each scrap a

Parch

Parched earth sighs beneath a blaze of gold, Cracks like old parchment spread across the field, Where once the wheat would whisper, bold and bright, Now lies a hush of dust, a thirst

Nutty

In the quiet orchard’s amber glow, Where squirrels scamper and breezes blow, The trees unfurl their rugged crowns, Bearing secrets in brown‑bound rounds. A walnut’s shell, a rugged hide, Holds a kernel sweet,

Pouch

In the lining of my favourite coat A leather pouch lies snug and brown, It holds a colourful array of trinkets, And small notes from the town. It smells of earth and

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