Poetry

Press

Ink‑stained fingers trace the age‑old press, Where lead and type once sang in rhythmic quest. The clatter of the forme, a steady beat, Whispers of stories that the world would meet. Now

Beaut

In a quiet lane where lilacs sigh, A single rose unfolds its hue, Petals blushing soft as sky, A modest bloom, a gentle brew. Its fragrance drifts on evening air, A whispered promise,

Honey

Golden drops in sunlit comb, A humming hive’s sweet amber home. From clover fields to heather’s sigh, Bees weave their nectar, thick and shy. Spread upon warm scones, it gleams— Britain’s liquid sunshine, fulfilled in

Broad

Broad horizons stretch beyond the street, Where fields of green meet the amber wheat, The river sighs, a silver thread, Through valleys wide where footsteps tread. Broad smiles of strangers, warm and kind, In Britain’s

Harsh

Harsh In the hush of dawn, the wind bites keen, A frosted breath that tears the quiet green, It scrapes the hedges, strips the leaf‑soft sheen, And turns the fields to iron‑grey sheen. Harsh are

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