Poetry

Churn

In the quiet dairy of the village green, A wooden churn sits, its oak worn smooth, Waiting for the milk to thicken, to be seen Turning slow as thoughts in a wistful youth.

Model Railways

On a shelf of pine and gentle light, A miniature world takes shape each night— Where tin‑plate rails hum in steady beat, And tiny locomotives find their street. Points swing open like

Booth

In the rain‑slicked corner of the high street, A red telephone booth stands, stoic and neat, Its glass panes misted with breath of the past, Where whispers of love and farewells have lasted.

Dundela

Dundela where the terraced rows breathe a quiet pride, red‑brick facades lining avenues that hum with the soft clatter of tram‑wheels on rain‑slicked cobbles. Here the echo of children’s laughter spills from schoolyard

Legal

In quiet chambers where the gavel sighs, The law unfolds—its words a measured tide, Each clause a thread in justice’ woven ties, Where truth and reason stand side by side. From barrister’s

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