Poetry

Inbox

In the quiet hum of morning light, My inbox waits, a digital post‑room, Letters arrive like pigeons on the sill, Each subject line a coloured envelope. I sort the urgent, the spam,

Crest

Upon the swell of azure tide, the wave’s soft crest, a frothy crown, it lifts and sighs, then gently slides, in silver lace it wears renown. A hill’s broad back, where heather

Foamy

Foamy whispers rise and fall, A silken crown on amber’s call, In kettle’s sigh or sea‑kissed spray, Each bubble dreams the day away. It crowns the latte, shy and sweet, A frothy veil

Curse

In the quiet attic of forgotten hours, A whisper lingers, cold as midnight’s dew— A curse, like ivy, clings to ancient towers, Turning laughter into shadows that accrue. It wears the garb

Jewel

In quiet drawers where whispers sleep, A jewel lies, its secrets keep: A sapphire tide of midnight hue, Reflecting skies of deep‑sea blue. Its facets catch the amber glow, Like sunrise spilling over

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