Poetry

Sully

To Sully In the quiet lane of Brixton’s maze, There lives a man called Sully, or so the locals say. His beard is neat like a well‑trimmed hedge, But in his eyes a storm,

Raiders of the Lost Ark

In the dust‑laden heart of the Sahara, the wind whispers in a deep, ancient colour. A favourite of dusty journals, a bravado, the legend of Raiders of the Lost Ark takes flight.

Waxen

In a lane where the summer light falls soft and amber, a field of bees, the air itself turns something warm, every leaf’s whisper—wax‑en gloss against the dusty afternoon. The sun, a coloured lantern, climbs high

Paths of Glory

Paths of Glory In twilight’s hush the old cobbles gleam, their ancient veins of stone lay strewn with dreams— the lanes that poets dare to trace when light upon their arches takes the place

Sumac

Sumac In the quiet garden, beneath the oaks, the sumac bend, a slender, coppery sweep, where dust of golden wax alights the dirt, and every leaf holds a promise of warm spice. It grows in

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