Poetry

Scold

Scolded whispers drift like winter rain, Across the kitchen tiles, a stern refrain; Mum’s voice, a firm and fluttering broom, Sweeps away the crumbs of careless gloom. Yet in the echo, love’s soft tide

Cross

At the crossing of old stone lanes, A wooden cross stands, weathered, plain. Its arms outstretched like a traveller’s sigh, Marking where two roads entwine and lie. In dusk’s soft hue, shadows gather, A quiet

Flirt

A shy smile flicks across the café, A teasing glance, a playful sway— You lean in close, your voice a low hum, Like summer rain on cobblestones, soft and glum. Your words

Matey

Matey, a word that rolls like tide on a shore, A salty grin shared between ship‑mates and more. It clinks in the galley, where biscuits are steeped, In the hush of the forecastle,

Sedan

On rain‑slick streets a sleek saloon glides, Its polished bonnet catching city lights, A quiet hum beneath the muted tyres, Where commuters share the hush of night. The boot holds dreams, the

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