Poetry

Saving Private Ryan

Echoes of the Bay When clouds of war clung high over Omaha’s shore, the first air‑spattered sky gave breath to the young. By ten‑seventeen, the tide of fate was poured, and thirteen broken children

Spiny

Spiny In a hedgerow turned to stone, a thistle stands alone, Its green‑green crown of bristles, a prickly, noble crown. Each needle, a tiny knife that guards its treasured root, A silent promise of

The Green Mile

The Green Mile In a dim corridor of iron and bruised floorboards, the pale light of dawn slinks westward, refusing to shine. There, a green‑tinted line of emotion and doubt surfaces like a slow‑blooming

Allot

Allot In the quiet council chamber, the mayor’s hand draws a line on the old map, and with a measured voice, she allots the plot to a child who will pow whitt‐off his

Back to the Future

Back to the Future In a wiry pop‑py' '70s town we set our course, Doc Brown, his brilliant mind, swore, “It’s no flop – it’s a rescue of the colour

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