Poetry

The Elephant Man

The Elephant Man In the dust‑laden halls of an old London asylum, Joseph Merrick walked a fragile, aching path, His skin a cragged map of pain, his eyes a calm calm, While some saw

Dial M for Murder

Dial M for Murder The city hums in low‑key blue, the streetlamps flicker like a nervous choir— in a quiet flat where secrets sit in the front‑door hall, the telephone ring slices the night. “Hello, number…?”

White

White – the quiet page turned at dawn, the pale mountain mist that drifts over Dover, the chalk that writes the horizon in a brittle script. It is the hush between the crackle

Myrrh

A Psalm of Myrrh Golden‑brown, the ancient resin glows, from ancient dunes of Arava it grows; Its forest‑hushed fragrance rises high over the chapel’s incense‑kissed sky. In the choir of the desert’s dance, the

Rugby

On Green Pastures In the dawn‑lit green of the empire’s game, A clash begins where the ball is the claim. The packing of the scrum, a tightening knot, Masses of strength, a line‑out’s faint,

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