Poetry

Speed

Speed In Britain’s quiet valleys, the wind whispers “tarry,” Yet rushes through the city like a freight train on the rails, A heart that pounds as fast as a foot‑pad’s beat, Colour the air

There Will Be Blood

There Will Be Blood In the bleak moors of California’s dust‑stained earth, a young‑brisk preacher clings to the flick‑vast faith of a bitter sermon that burns as surely as the furnace’s hearth for the

Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park – A Dream in the Cotswolds? An ode in British metre, a tongue‑tied labyrinth of stone In the misty swath of the Isle of Nublar, Beneath a sky that yawned like

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (a ballad in the spirit of a classic quest) In the crushing Mid‑western dusk the hills of Sierra rise, Their stone‑and‑sand cloaked wealth beneath a

Prism

A thin glass triangle, quiet in its stance, It splits the sun’s warm beam into a spectrum. Each face a doorway, a silent, careful glance, Where white light fractures into colour’s rhythm. It whispers

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