Poetry

Anvil

In the smoky hush of the old forge, A silent anvil waits, its face of steel, A steadfast heart where hammer blows converge, Each clang a echo of the craftsman’s zeal. Its

Ensue

Ensue When the rain sighs on the cobblestones, A ripple of steam curls from the pavement, Each droplet a quiet promise that follows, A soft‑spoken sequel to the storm’s refrain. Footsteps echo on

Scale

On the kitchen table, a brass scale rests, Its polished arms like quiet sentinels. A gentle sigh of metal as it settles, Balancing the world in grammes and ounces. Feathers of flour

Chalk

In the hushed classroom, a solitary stick, Of white calcium, humble and quick, It glides across the blackboard’s dark face, Leaving trails of thought in fleeting grace. The teacher’s hand, a steady

Feral

Feral In tangled hedgerows where the night grows old, A whiskered shadow slips through bramble‑gate, Its amber eyes reflect the moon’s cold gold, A creature born of instinct, not of fate. It pads

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