Poetry

Table

Upon the oak, a quiet stage, Where cups of tea and biscuits engage, The grain recalls each whispered tale, A steadfast centre where hearts prevail. In morning light, the wood does gleam, A

Funny

A chuckle bubbles in the tea‑time air, A giggle twirls like a scone on a plate. We trade our worries for a daft affair, Where puns are buttered spreads we can’t abate.

Bacon

Bacon – a rasher of sunrise, Sizzling gently in the pan, Each strip a golden whisper of flavour, Crisp at the edges, tender within. It drifts on the air like a familiar

Globe

Upon the silent sphere of earth we trace, A blue‑green marble turning slow in space, Where oceans whisper secrets old and deep, And mountains guard the dreams that valleys keep. From bustling streets of

Spent

Spent The afternoon sun fell low, a tired gold, as we counted coins that had slipped through our fingers— each note a whisper of evenings once bright, now folded flat in the hollow of

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