Under the Quiet Sky The earth bends low in the damp of evening, Grainfields whispering as if to know The weight of silence we carry, Cracked hands smoothing the fading sun. I walk the lanes, where the hedgerows curl like old stories, Their thorns reaching out to hold the sky in place. Each footstep is a word, Each breath a promise made To the hills, to the dust, To the unspoken things we never say aloud. The brook runs on like time— Unhindered, unbothered, A slow song through green shadows That only the worn understand. Somewhere, far off, A lark threads its song through the cool air, Its voice a thread that ties my heart To what has been, to what might never be again. I wait for dusk to answer, But it, too, keeps its distance.

Whispers Through the Ashen Pines The sky folds softly at the edge of dawn, Where the hills, in silent echoes, draw their breath. Between the crests, where shadows linger long, I hear the faintest murmur of a death. The wind, like fingers on a forgotten harp, Plays songs of seasons none remember now. The pines, so weathered, fold beneath their scars, Their roots are tangled in the earth's dark brow. I walk alone along this crumbling path, The stones beneath my feet are old and cold. In every crack, a memory's ghost, its wrath Too quiet for the world to ever hold. The years are whispers in the ashen leaves, That drift like dust on long-forgotten graves. Yet still, I walk, as if the heart believes The soil beneath me yet will lift and save. But all around me, in the amber light, The earth keeps secrets no one dares to speak. Each step, a prayer; each breath, a quiet fight, For moments lost and promises too weak.