Poetry

Crane

On misty marshes a crane does glide, Feathers of slate, a quiet pride. Long legs like stilts o’er reed and rush, It watches waters with patient hush. At dawn it lifts, a

Kazoo

A humble kazoo, of tin and thin membrane, Whispers a buzz where song would claim, With just a hum, a breath, a sigh— It turns our voice to comic sky. In pubs

Ranch

On the soft‑hued hills of Somerset’s green, A ranch lies still beneath the wide‑blue sky, Where cattle drift in quiet, steady sheen, And lorries hum a low, contented sigh. The farmhouse stands

Strap

A humble strap of leather, Looping tight around the wrist, Binding watch to pulse, A quiet promise kept. It pulls the day together, Like a seam in well‑worn cloth, Holding moments close, Until the clasp

Crime

In the fog‑lit alleys of the city, Whispers of crime slip like shadowed silk, A gloved hand lifts a purse, the night’s soft sigh, While sirens wail a mournful hymn to the bobbies.

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