Poetry

Puffy

It’s not the cloud, nor sleep-deprived eye, Nor bread that’s left too long to rise – No, puffy lives where quiet things comply: The teabag’s slow, reluctant sigh As it swells and dunks in

Bring

Bring In the hush of early dawn, the kettle sighs, A plume of steam that brings the day awake— A quiet promise, soft as morning skies, That labour’s hands will bring what hearts partake.

Plume

Plume A single feather drifts on summer’s sigh, Its soft, down‑y plume a quiet, silent flight, A blush of ivory, a hint of sky, That lingers where the meadow meets the light. From

Crock

The Crock In the kitchen’s quiet corner stands a crock— A sturdy earthen jar, its surface speckled brown, Its glaze a humble, earthy hue, a modest stock That has held the seasons’ bounty, turned

Rural

I pull my wellies on, the morning air so cool, Damp earth and hawthorn blossom, nature’s quiet rule. Beyond the garden gate, where stile meets winding lane, Patchwork fields unfold again – a

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