Poetry

Aptly

Aptly the morning light slips through the blind, Colouring the kitchen in a soft, buttery hue, Where the kettle sighs and the toast pops just right, A cup of tea, steeped strong, waits

Foggy

In the hush of early morning, A silver veil descends, Foggy streets lie mute and dreaming, Where lamplight softly bends. The world becomes a watercolour, Each contour blurred, indistinct, Footsteps whisper on the cobbles, As

Spiel

Spiel In the market square he stands, a barrel‑chested showman, His voice a brass band spilling over cobblestones, A torrent of patter that rolls like the Thames at flood, Each word a bright farthing,

Denim

Denim whispers in cotton‑woven seams, A sturdy cloth that bears the street‑wise dreams. From work‑yard looms to city‑side cafés, Its indigo hue fades in sun‑kissed ways. Trousers cut with a straight, honest

Catch

On a quiet river bend, the fisherman waits, His line a silver thread that hums with hope, He watches ripples dance where shadows play, And dreams of silver flashes in the rope.

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