Poetry

Back to the Future

Back to the Future In a wiry pop‑py' '70s town we set our course, Doc Brown, his brilliant mind, swore, “It’s no flop – it’s a rescue of the colour

The Pianist

The Pianist In the hush of the cathedral‑shaped hall, the keys gleam, a sea of ebony and ivory, whispering thin, bright corridors of sound. She sits, the pianist, fingers like wisteria vines— sweeping,

Jumbo

Jumbo It starts with a gate that is wide enough for a lorry, a bell that rings like a brass corgi, and a queue that stretches far beyond the coffee stall where the

Gladiator

When the coliseum crept beneath a bruised‑sienna sky, the arches breathed a frolic—old stone, new ache— the gasped breath of a crowd that sang the same bruised lullaby: “Take heed, dear soul, your

Flaky

Flaky—an adjective that rolls like a pastry in the wind, Soft, layered, bright, a buttery cloud that basks in afternoon light. Its crumb falls on the tongue like a well‑made promise, Yet the

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