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Burgundy

In ruby-hued satin, she pirouettes alone, Her form a silhouette against the tone Of evening's blush, where shadows softly play, Amidst the burgundy that wraps her frame at bay. With every step, the fabric billows wide, A skirt of old-money elegance inside, Yet her bare skin glistens like polished stone, Ethereal, untainted, utterly her own. Her arms, entwined, create a pose of grace, A Botticelli vision in a modern space, As if the nymphs of ancient lore had come, To dance and twirl, unbound by mortal thumb. Time stands still in this suspended scene, Where art and life entwine, a sanguine dream, Of freedom's fleeting nature and its hold, On hearts that beat within a living mold. She is a vision born of color, light, And the intoxicating thrill of unbridled might, A fleeting moment preserved in embered thought, Of a woman bold, in radiance untaught.
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Shadows in the Digital Hearth

Shadows in the Digital Hearth


In the heart of Rochdale, where shadows stretch and wane,

A woman with a pram, her gaze clipped by disdain.

Queensway pulses, a macabre dance of starlit screens,

Whispers of strife weave through burger shop dreams.


Smartphones flash like strobe lights, capturing the fray,

As the flicker of empathy dims, lost in the fray,

A bus revs its engine, a beast on the street,

While the harbingers of discord rise from their seats.


He, a mere passer-by, caught in the web's snare,

Innocence tainted by a digital glare.

The driver, a giant, unchecked in his rage,

Unfolds the day’s drama, the scene from a page.


And in nearby shadows, another foe stalks,

With a child at her side, she joins the cruel talks,

A confluence of chaos, where pixels ignite,

The pulse of community fractured by spite.


Terror compounded in whispers and threads,

A friend turned accuser, as doubt’s specter spreads.

Wayne Croston Fielding, with vengeance as muse,

Turns ally to adversary, feeding the ruse.


Each tap of a keyboard, a dagger unsheathed,

As the Bay Horse pub, darkened, breathes underneath,

Victims shrinking in light, shunning the glare,

In this digital hearth, where none seem to care.


Yet hearts beat below, amidst plastic and hate,

In the throes of the night, they decide their fate,

To rise like the phoenix from ashes of spite,

To challenge the shadows and reclaim the light.




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