Poetry

Write

In quiet rooms the ink begins to flow, A soft murmur of thoughts upon the page, Each sentence like a breath, a gentle glow, Turning the silence into words that engage. The writer’s hand,

Peace

In quiet hush of morning’s first light, When mist like silk drifts over fields of green, The world exhales, and wars take flight, Leaving space where gentle thoughts convene. Hands once clenched

Wordy

Loquacious lanes where sentences unwind, A river of words that refuses to find Its bank, it spills in endless, winding streams, Each syllable a bright, bewildering gleam. The page grows stout with

Verve

Verve bursts like a sunrise over Camden, A spark that leaps from pavement to the Thames, It hums in bustling markets, bright and random, Where laughter rings and every heart exclaims. It’s

Scrub

Scrub In morning light the kitchen sighs, A sponge awash with sudsy skies, It darts across the chipped‑blue tiles, Whisking away the greasy miles. The bristles knead the stubborn stain, Like tiny soldiers on

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives