Poetry

Rusty

Rusty whispers in the railway sleeper, A slow sigh of iron breathing time, Where once the locomotive’s fire sang bright, Now muted hues of orange‑brown entwine. The girders bow beneath a patient

Awful

Awful— the sky cracks open like a stale biscuit, its grey‑blue hue bleeding into the pavement, while a distant lorry groans, its exhaust curling like cold tea left too long in the pot.

Loser

Loser In the grey of a rain‑slicked afternoon, he sits on the park bench, a crumpled ticket in his palm—today’s defeat, yesterday’s hope. The world rushes past in double‑decker buses, their

Blown

Blown In the hush of a wintry dusk, the gusts arise, Whispering secrets through the bare‑branched trees, Their breath a silvered veil that sweeps the skies, Turning stale thoughts to scattered, trembling leaves.

Donor

A donor stands in quiet hall, With folded hands and steady gaze— Not seeking fame, nor craved applause, But giving life in modest ways. A vein may yield a ruby tide, A kidney’s

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