Poetry

Timer

The quiet click of a kitchen timer, its brass face ticking through the afternoon, counting down the moments while the dough rises, fragrant, in the warm, yeasty gloom. A sand‑filled glass, the

Ladle

Ode to the Ladle In the kettle’s steamy sigh, A humble ladle waits nearby, Its curved belly, polished steel, Cradles broth that tastes of zeal. With each gentle swoop and tilt, It

Spite

Spite In the dim alleyways of a restless mind, Spite coils like a serpent of frost, Its scales are the sharp edges of wounded pride, Its breath a chill that steals the

Navel

In the quiet centre of our belly’s curve, A tiny hollow where the umbilical thread once served, Now a secret dimple, soft and warm, A quiet reminder of the life that once was

Check

A quiet pause, a moment’s check, The hand that lifts, the breath that steadies— A simple tick upon the list, A whisper of assurance, soft and mild. In corridors of thought we

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