Poetry

Scent of a Woman

In the dim light of a London dusk she lingers like a well‑worn novel— the faint perfume of tea leaves, whispered across a cracked paving stone. A swirl of rose, lavender in

Mooch

A Poem About the Mooch In a cosy flat on the fringe of the city, Where the kettle’s hiss is a low lullaby, There lives a soul – a ‘mooch’ by definition, A seeker

The Help

There is a hush that coats the great‑hall steps of a country house where the floorboards wish to remember the footfalls of those unheard— the soft, relentless sweep of the maid’s hand. In the

Dances with Wolves

Dances with Wolves In the wide‑sprawled plains where the horizon unrolls, A lone lieutenant strides in the dust of the south, His heart a compass set further than his will — A shoreless page

Surge

Surge – the word that whistles through the air, A rolling, crawling pulse that rides the tide. On Thames‑bank nights the water swells, a tide‑swept sigh, Turning quiet harbour reeds into canvases of

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