Poetry

Fresh

Fresh In the hush of dawn, the dew‑kissed grass exhales, A scent of earth, of green, of morning’s first sigh. The baker’s oven sighs warm loaves onto the counter, Crust crackling like autumn leaves

Feign

Feigning smiles in cafés where the rain taps softly, We mask our thoughts behind a polite façade, A veneer of calm that flutters like a moth, While underneath, true feelings stir unseen. In the

Karma

Karma turns the quiet wheel of deeds, A soft echo in the marrow of each day, What we sow in thought, in word, in gentle creed, Returns to us like rain on Lancashire

Model

In quiet studios where light does play, A model stands, a living display, Her posture poised, a silent line, A canvas brushed with grace design. She moves like tide on Brighton’s shore, Each

Dwarf

In the hush of ancient hills they dwell, Stout‑hearted dwarves with beards like braided wool, Their hammers ring where crystal caverns swell, Forging bright treasures in the mountain’s skull. They tread the

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