Poetry

Sting

Barefoot through the hedgerow, slow and low, Where tangled briars and sweet briars grow, A sudden sharpness, bright and neat, Ooh! That nettle got my barefoot sweet. Smarting starts, a tiny fire, Making

Leave

Leave In the hush of a railway station, steam curls like whispered goodbyes, the platform sighs under a grey‑tinted sky, as footsteps retreat on wet cobbles. A suitcase thuds, a latch clicks shut, the

Admit

Admit the crack in the teacup, the quiet tear that stains the cuff, the whispered doubt that lingers rough— own it, and the night grows soft. In humble truth we find the

Grate

Upon the cold hearth, the iron grate sighs, Its bars a lattice for ember’s shy rise. Each flicker of flame finds purchase, a dance, As sparks whisper secrets in soot‑filled trance. The kitchen’s grater,

Alike

Alike in hush of dawn, Two souls that share the same soft breath, Like twin rivers winding through the vale, Their waters catch the same pale light, Their reflections merge in quiet unity, A mirror

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