Poetry

Halve

When the day splits its golden crown in two, We halve the light, we halve the dew— Each shadow leans upon its mate, A quiet balance, soft and straight. An apple falls,

Prone

Prone upon the heath, the wind sighs low, A shadow spreads where thistles grow, My thoughts, like weary sheep, lie prone, Waiting for the sun to claim its own.

Carve

In wood and stone the quiet hand will carve, A whispered story in each grain and groove. With chisel keen, the craftsman's heart does stir, Turning raw timber into forms that live. Each stroke

Mommy

Mummy’s hands are warm and steady, Her laughter rings like chimes in the kitchen, She weaves love into every Sunday roast, And tucks stories beneath the quilt of night. In her eyes I find

Joint

On the carvery slab the joint of beef does rest, A marbled canvas, deep and rich in colour, The butcher’s labour yields a tender feast, While rosemary and thyme perfume the air. It is

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