Poetry

World

The world turns slow, a sapphire sphere, Where oceans whisper in quiet tide, Mountains stand guard, ancient and austere, And forests breathe with verdant pride. From bustling streets to silent glades, Humanity weaves

Dozen

My favourite dozen of sunrise thoughts, Each a soft scone on a misty morn. They roll like red lorries through cobbled lanes, Gathering dew in a chipped porcelain cup. When the church bell tolls

Growl

In the dim back‑alley of the city, a low growl rumbles from the throat of night, a sound that rolls like distant thunder over wet pavement and the hiss of a lorry’s brakes.

Steed

Upon the mist‑clad moor a steadfast steed does tread, His coat a midnight sable, eyes like polished jet. He bears the knight through heather‑hued and bracken‑red, With hooves that drum a rhythm on

Enema

The Enema Not for the faint of heart, nor the prudish soul, But a quiet ritual, reaching deep, Where warm solution, gravity-controlled, Begin the slow, internal sweep. No harsh chemicals, just water, tepid, mild, To loosen

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