Poetry
The Grapes of Wrath
The Grapes of Wrath I snuck across the blasted plains, a shadow on the way, The wind sang wail‑wing to the old plough‑lines of the day. Her scars are in the soil, they
Read more →Muggy
In a world that wears its mud like a second skin, the air drips with the quiet hesitation of a London fog that clings to the tram and the shop‑fronts of the
Read more →Rocky
Rocky On the mist‑hung rocks of the North coast, a lone figure sweeps the shore— Rocky, a lad of pin‑point grit, his boots sunk deep in the bleached stone. He watches the gulls race the
Read more →Logan
On the green of the lane where the old hedgerows stand, Lives a young lad named Logan, with a heart so grand. He strolls beneath the oaks, where leeks grow in the
Read more →The Sound of Music
The Sound of Music In a garden where the morning mist roams, the air is draped with a muted, silver dome. A piano, tired of birch‑trimmed shafts, whispers its chords, breaking dawn’s soft drafts.
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