Poetry

Leach

The Quiet Leach In the hum of a Yorkshire spring‑cockle, Black loam gleams beneath a speckled heap, A thin‑rim glass of rain is set to creep, And will its silvery tongue through earth aspire.

The Third Man

The Third Man In the grey‑lit alleys of post‑war Vienna, the city still reeks of steam‑clouded nights, Max and Harry linger in a shared apartment, their shadows long as they chase the lingering tide

Paper Moon

Paper Moon In the hush of a rain‑slick London evening, a child’s crayon‑smudged moon rises— white paper folded with trembling fingers, glimmering with a silver hope that refuses to fall. It hangs, a quiet defiant

All Quiet on the Western Front

On the iron‑clad fringe where scar‑red wind stands, The trench‑filled land, where fallen feet meet sand, I walk in ghost‑lit dust of rifle‑fire’s breath— A weary hush where German drill met quiet death. In

The Grapes of Wrath

The Grapes of Wrath I snuck across the blasted plains, a shadow on the way, The wind sang wail‑wing to the old plough‑lines of the day. Her scars are in the soil, they

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