Poetry

Grist

Grist for the mill of quiet mornings, Golden kernels waiting in the sack, Each grain a promise, each husk a story— The miller’s hands turn patience into crackle. In the stone‑wheeled hush,

Bingo

In the bingo hall the lights are low, A chorus of voices hums soft and slow, Each number called, a fluttered hope, Daubers hover, eager to cope. When “House!” is shouted, joy does flare, A

Geeky

In a room lit by the glow of LED strips, Where wires coil like vines around a Raspberry Pi, A geek sits cross‑legged, eyes fixed on code— Python scripts humming like a quiet

Dress

In the quiet atelier, silk whispers against the loom, A drape of midnight, stitched with threads of twilight’s gloom. Each seam a secret, each fold a quiet sigh, A frock that moves like

Holey

Holey In the pantry’s quiet nook, A wedge of cheddar lies, holey‑streaked, Each cavern a tiny tale— Of mice that whispered through the night, Of air that slipped and sang. A sieve, its mesh

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