Month: November 2025

Every choice casts a second shadow,
A quiet twin that drifts the other way.
Walking backwards through imagined hours,
Along an unlit, unwritten day.
While one world grows wild with possibility,
Feral with colour, breath and sound,
The other sinks beneath the surface,
Like a forest swallowed, root and crown.

Every step that finds its way
Through maps of dust and open air,
Erases gardens never planted,
And constellations that were never there.
Silent roots beneath each choice,
Tangle through the darkened ground,
Drinking from forgotten rivers,
Where invisible costs are found.

For every door that opens wide,
With brass-lit hinges, warm and bright,
Another settles into stillness,
Leaning to live without the light.
No moment ever stands alone,
No answer comes without its weight,
For time collects all maybes, too,
In archives never set by fate.

My grandad is a mountain, steady, strong and true,
A man who never falters in the hardest things he’ll do.
He walks with quiet purpose, with courage in his stride,
A strength that never wavers and a heart he’ll never hide.

My grandad builds up worlds with skill that never ends,
He shapes the rough into something fine, the kind which life depends.
He turns bare boards into beauty, makes the broken good as new,T
here’s nothing he can’t fix when he sets his mind ‘to do’.

My grandad gives so freely, never asking for reward,
He’s first to lend a helping hand, the steady, quiet sort.
He puts others before himself in everything he does,
A man whose honest, open heart defines the best of us.

My grandad never grumblers at the tough cards life has thrown,
He shoulders ever burden with a courage all his own.
He rises to each challenge with a calm unshaken grace,
A quiet sort of bravery time can never erase.

My grandad leaves a legacy I learn from every day,
In the things he shows with actions and the quiet words he’ll say.
And while he’s here beside me, I carry this with pride:
My grandad is the strongest man, with love that doesn’t hide.

There is an orchard that no one owns,
Where stories echo as trees grow old.
The wind hums a choir through hollowed stones,
Of youth once bright, now turning cold.

But first it starts with bright green leaves,
Fattened fruit, and healthy seeds.
A gentle lie the summer weaves,
Before frost comes with silver weeds.

It picks the petals off the rose,
To see the brittle secrets shown.
It walks the path no mercy knows,
To hear the shape of undertone.

The orchard shifts, the soil dries,
The apples bruise, the peaches sour.
The honey sags beneath the flies,
And the sweetness wilts by the hour.

The birds circle and take what shimmers,
Never mourning the branches stripped.
Their gentle claws are practiced trimmers,
With nectar coating each bit they’ve dipped.

The shadows stretch along the rows,
Where whispered time dissolves the air.
A hollow murmur only grows,
And leaves a taste of something rare.

You stand witness to every season,
Collecting ripeness with the rot.
Too young to name the creeping treason,
Too old to claim you feel it not.

The orchard never speaks its warning,
It simply is, and was, and will,
A blooming elegy by the morning,
A song of loss the twilights fill. 

And so…

The wind will tell you, if you stay,
Of all the things that fade and fray.
For time will take, and leave, and sever,
And nothing waits for you forever.