Poetry

Aisle

In the hushed nave of the old stone church, An aisle runs soft beneath the choir’s hymn, Flagstones worn by centuries of tread, Where whispered prayers and silent vows descend. Beyond the

Debit

Debit whispers from the ledger's quiet page, A steady pulse where numbers gently sway, Each transaction a soft, unhurried stage, Where credit's echo fades to measured grey. It tells the tale of

Drawn

Drawn In quiet rooms where shadows play, A pencil sighs upon the page— Its graphite whispers, soft and grey, Engaging thoughts in silent stage. Each line a breath, each curve a sigh, A portrait

Rerun

Rerun On the flickering screen the same scene sighs, A familiar chorus in muted tones— Lines we once laughed at, now stale as old pies, Repeating the jokes that we’ve already known.

Widen

Widen the road that winds through misty hills, Where ancient oaks stand guard and whisper low, Their branches stretch like arms to greet the sky, Inviting travellers to let their worries go.

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