Poetry

Style

In the hush of a city’s quiet lane, Where cobblestones echo a bygone refrain, A coat of tweed drapes over shoulders bold, A whisper of silk, a tale of gold. Style is

Heart

In quiet chambers of the chest it lies, A scarlet drum, a steady, beating tide. It hums beneath the ribs, a whispered sigh, That pulls the blood through veins where life resides.

Flyer

Upon the notice board it lies, A splash of colour, crisp and bright, A flyer whispers of the night, Of jazz, of tea, of Saturday’s surprise. It folds itself in crisp white lines, Inviting passers‑by

Droop

In the quiet hush of a British summer’s afternoon, the sun‑kissed heads of the garden’s favourites begin to droop, their golden crowns bowing low as if in polite apology to the sky.

Crone

She walks the lanes where moss clings to stone, A crone with eyes that hold the dusk’s own tone. Her hair, a silver veil, whispers of time, Each strand a thread in the

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