Poetry

Comet

Across the ink‑black sky a wanderer glides, An icy traveller with a silver‑bright tail, Its heart of frozen dust ignites as it slides, Leaving a gossamer trail that whispers of tales. It

Tweed

In misty highlands where the heather sighs, A weaver’s loom sings low beneath grey skies, Threads of wool, in muted earthen hue, Are spun to tweed, both sturdy and true. Worn by

Audit

In the quiet hush of morning light, The ledger lies, a steady page, Numbers marching in ordered rank, Awaiting the auditor’s sage gaze. With keen eye and measured tread, They scrutinise each entry’s

Round

Round In the quiet of a Sunday morning, the sun climbs a perfect orb, spilling amber over the pavement, warming the stones like a buttered scone. Children chase a bright red ball across the green, their

Goner

Goner In the dim‑lit lane behind the old cinema, a figure slips, shoulders hunched against the rain, each step a whisper on the wet pavement, a sigh that the wind carries away like old

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