Poetry
Christmas Eve
On Christmas Eve the streets grow still, the firelight flickers, honey‑sweet and old – a hush of wool, a winter blue, a dream, and everywhere the quiet hums like gold. The market
Read more →No Country for Old Men
No Country for Old Men The sun lies low over the whispering plains, a copper stretch where dust and gravity braid. No quiet road for tired, aching knees, only the not‑so‑gentle bustle
Read more →Unforgiven
Unforgiven In the dim light of an old London street, where the sky bruises beneath a smudged coat of grey, the name Unforgiven whispers on‑hand like a forgotten back‑pocketed card — a story waiting to
Read more →Glint
Glint In the still hush of a London afternoon, the sun drips gold over streets that have seen wars— a flash, a glint, on the polished brass of the double‑decked cab, shining through the
Read more →Prisoners
In the Quiet Halls of the Everyday The bell rings—soft as the wind that cracks the iron bars, its chime echoing through the damp red‑brick corridor. In the twilight of the daft, colour‑less
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