Poetry

Baron

The Baron of Ashcombe Hall In the hollow where the old stone walls keep the dawn’s first sigh, the baron sat upon his plinth, a glass of port and a sigh for

Alien

In a quiet corner of a restless night, a visitor lands, a glinting star form— his tongue is not a whine of fright but a song, and his eyes, blue mirrors of a

Django Unchained

In the dust‑laden lanes of a forgotten South, a man of black furrowed brow steps through the river of roughed‑up red – Django speaking the tongue of the condemned, his name a

Clink

The Clink In a snug pub at ten‑one on a Sunday, the bar‑ches contribute their quiet rhyme, let a dozen grey‑washed pints align, their glassy hearts wrapped in a silver sheen. The clink – a

Apocalypse Now

On a river that drifts like a dream, the colour of dusk spills over booted boots, and the poet’s pen, half‑filled with grief, writes the flutter of menace in the rain. In the depths

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