Poetry

Aloof

In quiet corners of the mind, he stands, Aloof, as if wrapped in a woolen overcoat, His gaze drifting past the bustling market stalls, Where scones steam and tea is poured with care.

Relic

Relic In dust‑laden corners of forgotten halls, A relic lies—its surface softened by time, A silent witness to epochs that fall, Whispering stories in a language sublime. Bronze or bone, it bears the

Tweak

My favourite habit is to tweak and tune, A quiet turn of the screw in thought’s repose, Each subtle shift a soft, sincere monologue, Turning the ordinary into something new.

Route

On the winding route through misty hills, Footsteps echo where the old railway sighs, Each bend a story, each gate a thrill, The world unfolds in quiet, steady skies.

Brief

Cotton hugs the hips so neat, A favoured cut, both trim and sweet. No excess cloth, no pointless flare, Just honest comfort, cool and airy. It holds its place with quiet grace, A

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