Poetry

A slug named Ernie

Ernie the slug, so slow and slick, Leaves a silver trail across the brick. Through garden paths and dewy grass, He glides at dusk, a quiet mass. His shell‑less coat, a glossy

Joist

In the quiet hush of a timbered attic, A joist lies low, a humble beam, Its grain a map of patient years, Whispering the weight of every dream. It bears the floor that feet

Queen of the South

She reigns where sun‑kissed tides embrace the sand, A crown of coral woven ’round her hand. From rust‑red dunes to jade‑green lagoon she calls, Her sceptre sings with trade winds’ distant calls. In every

Ruler

Upon the oaken desk, the ruler lies, A slender strip of boxwood, marked in centimetres, Its edge a quiet judge of length and truth, Each line a silent pledge to measure. When

Dundee

On the banks of the silvery Tay, Where Dundee awakes to the morning grey, The clang of the looms once filled the air, Jute threads woven with hope and prayer. Now the

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