Poetry

Wooer

A wooer walks the lane where blossoms sigh, His heart a drum of hopeful, steady beat; He courts the moon, he woos the evening sky, With verses stitched in silk and scented sweet.

Delta

Delta In the quiet hush of morning tide, the river sighs and splits its pride, spilling silver threads to meet the sea— a living Greek letter, Δ, set free. Each distributary, a slender

Stout

In the dim‑lit tavern, a pint of stout waits, Its midnight hue a cloak of roasted barley fate. Silky as a woolen jumper on a Yorkshire morn, It whispers of oak, of coffee,

Ivory

Ivory Soft as the morning mist that drapes the lake, A quiet gleam where elephant tusks lie. It holds the memory of sun‑kissed savanna, Of ancient trade routes winding through the dust, Where traders bartered

First

First In the hush before sunrise, a lone footfall meets the dew‑slick pavement, the world tilting on the edge of night – the first breath of day, crisp as fresh‑baked scone. A child’s

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