Poetry

Klaus

Klaus by the Old Waterfront Beneath the blue of the Thames‑bank sky, Klaus walks the cobbles, a quiet wry grin, Did a half‑pint in a Chelsea corner, His laugh tucked beside a battered flat‑iron. He

Quilt

A Quilt's Lullaby In the quiet of the drawing‑room, beneath the moon‑lit pane, A grandmother’s quilt breathes stories, stitched in autumn’s grain. Each patch a little chapter, a secret in its seam, Colours mingle—scarlet,

The Elephant Man

The Elephant Man In the dust‑laden halls of an old London asylum, Joseph Merrick walked a fragile, aching path, His skin a cragged map of pain, his eyes a calm calm, While some saw

Dial M for Murder

Dial M for Murder The city hums in low‑key blue, the streetlamps flicker like a nervous choir— in a quiet flat where secrets sit in the front‑door hall, the telephone ring slices the night. “Hello, number…?”

White

White – the quiet page turned at dawn, the pale mountain mist that drifts over Dover, the chalk that writes the horizon in a brittle script. It is the hush between the crackle

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