Poetry

Loath

Loath to rise when dawn pulls the curtains back, I linger in the quilt’s soft, muted grey, Each breath a hesitant sigh, a quiet crack Between the world’s loud call and my own

Bylaw

In council halls where quiet sits, A byelaw stands, its purpose writ— A gentle rule, in modest print, That guides the folk and steadies hint. From street‑side bins to park’s soft green, It

Mover

Mover In the hush of dawn, a lorry sighs, its engine low, a steady pulse, while cardboard boxes stack like dreams waiting for the next street’s promise. He lifts the weight of wooden frames, the creak

Creed

Creed In quiet corners of the heart we lay A simple thread that weaves the days— A whispered promise, steady, true, A creed that guides what we pursue. Not carved in

Waver

Waver In the hush of morning light, a flag does waver, Its cloth a trembling sigh against the cool, pale sky, Each thread a quiet pulse, a soft, indecisive shiver— A dance

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