Poetry

Wagon

On quiet lanes where hedges sigh, An old waggon trundles by, Its wooden wheels a creaking song, Carrying memories along. Painted in muted ochre hue, Its canvas top a weathered view, It bears the

Brain

In the quiet labyrinth of the skull, A soft grey city hums beneath the bone— Neurons fire like lanterns in the night, Weaving thoughts that flutter, swift and bright. Synapses whisper, a

Thank

Thank you, a word that hums like low wind, Soft as a sigh through autumn trees, Wrapped in gratitude, it finds A place where quiet kindness breathes. We thank the sunrise for

Torch

In the night’s hush a torch flares bright, A steady beacon against the dark, Its flame a quiet promise, warm and light, Guiding wandering steps till morning’s spark. Hold it close, feel

Smoke

Smoke In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil rises from the hearth, a quiet breath of burnt pine and distant ember, curling like whispered secrets that slip through the fingers of

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