Poetry

Axiom

An axiom stands, quiet and sure, A truth accepted without proof— Like the sunrise that paints the sky In soft gold, without question why. It whispers through the halls of thought, A foundation

Glyph

In the hush of script’s quiet realm, a single glyph awakens— a whisper carved in ink or stone, its curve a secret, softly spoken. It dances on the parchment’s breath, a loop, a

Maple

In the quiet of an English garden, A maple stands, its leaves like amber glass, Each palm‑shaped frond a whisper of autumn, Turning gold as the sun’s low, honeyed light. Its sap, a sweet

Inane

Inane thoughts drift like lazy clouds, A pointless chuckle, soft and loud— They tickle the mind with frivolous sighs, Where sense takes leave and nonsense flies. We stroll through corridors of daft

Photo

A single frame, a quiet breath, Caught in silver‑halide light, Where moments linger, soft and still— A photograph, a slice of night. The shutter clicks, the world stands still, Colours blend in muted

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