Poetry

Leaky

Leaky whispers from the kitchen tap, A steady drip that marks the quiet hour. Each bead of water clings to rusted chrome, A tiny flood that gathers in the sink. The old

Binge

Binge In the hush of a rainy night, the telly glows – a favourite programme, episodes spill like sweet tea, one after another, relentless. We sink into the sofa’s embrace, cushions plumped,

Viola

In the hush of evening’s amber glow, A viola sighs, its voice aglow— Rich and warm, a velvet tone, Whispering tales the strings have known. Bow caresses horsehair, soft and low, Drawing forth

While

While the kettle sighs, the morning drifts, A pause between the tick and the tock, While clouds gather like wool over hills, We linger in the hush of in‑between, While thoughts unwind like woollen

Right

Right In the hush of morning light, I pause— To feel the pulse of what is just, A steady beat that rights the cause, Where conscience whispers, firm and just. It is not

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