Poetry

Slick

Slick On a rain‑kissed Monday morning, the city’s streets turn a glossy, mirror‑black, a slick of petrol‑spilled gleam, where lorries sigh and double‑decker buses glide, their tyres humming a low‑tone jazz on the wet

Oasis

In the hush of sun‑scorched dunes, Where the wind sings low and thin, An oasis blooms, a secret tune, A splash of green where hopes begin. Palm fronds sway like quiet fans, Offering

Rehab

Rehab In the hushed corridors of the centre, light falls soft on linoleum, a steady rhythm of footsteps— each one a promise to the self that tomorrow will be gentler than the bruises of yesterday. Therapists in

Hamnet

Upon the quiet fields of Stratford’s air, A boy named Hamnet did his tender years Spend ’neath the elm, where sunlight caught his hair, And laughter rang like chimes in summer’s sphere. Yet fever

Marty Supreme

Ode to Marty Supreme Marty Supreme, of biscuit-tin renown, Whose kingdom’s sealed in cardboard, worn and brown. He lines the custard creams in perfect rows, A general who o’er the shortbread throws His

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