In the cradle of crucibles, molten dreams pour,
Carbon and iron, alloyed to endure.
Cast steel cools in molds of intent,
Grain-bound strength in every dent.

Machinist’s dawn, the lathe hums low,
Tool meets stock in a tempered flow.
Torque and touch, precision’s dance,
Each pass a whisper; each cut a chance.

Spiral curls like silvered vines,
Long and laced in looping lines.
Blue-tempered ribbons, heat-kissed and proud,
Singing of friction, sharp and loud.

Short chips snap with brittle grace,
Scattered stars in a metal space.
Dust-fine swarf, a powdered veil,
Ghosts of edges, cold and pale.

Boring deep through hardened skin,
Contours carved from deep within.
Threads emerge like ancient runes,
Spun in silence, shaped by tunes.

Mill and drill, the chorus grows,
Steel responds in rhythmic throes.
Each shaving tells a tale of strain,
Of force, finesse, and measured gain.

So let the coolant mist and gleam,
A machinist’s breath, a craftsman’s dream.
For cast steel speaks in shavings made,
In every curl, its strength displayed.

for the moment we dare not name

We met in the evening, a café tucked away in the back streets, where steam curls and the world disappears.

Your smile, half-spoken, reaches across the table like a bridge I might risk walking. Fingers tap rhythms on ceramic cups, measuring time in heartbeats, not minutes.

I speak, then laugh, too quickly, maybe, and you catch it, not correcting, just knowing. We orbit casual topics, but the gravity between glances pulls deeper.

Outside, the pavement cools. Inside, our words grow warmer, a thread unwinding from comfort to curiosity and to the edge of tender, maybe.

I wonder if you hear it too, the silence that isn’t empty, but filled with the question neither of us dares to ask.

But your hand, brushing mine as we reach for the bill, answers it gently.

Tonight, we are possibility, wrapped in the scent of coffee and the hush of recognition. Not love, not yet, but something leaning toward it, like a flame finding air.

We stand in the quietness of a half-lit room
where our fingertips trace our final outline
and the air tastes of departed echoes.

Our pulse is a metronome of dread
ticking secrets away beneath brittle ribs.
Will it be today
when our breath dissolves into a sigh
and we vanish like midnight’s promise?

We ask each other in quiet tones: “Will it be today?”
“The hush already tightens around my breath.”
“Yet I cling to the rumour of tomorrow.”

Or could it be tomorrow
when the curtains draw back on emptiness
and the shadows swallow what remains of our shape?

We stand on the edge of a borrowed moment,
feet trembling on the threshold of silence,
no footsteps behind us, only the echo
of what once called itself alive.

Yet beyond our fear, a sovereign whisper lingers:
God has the timing in his hands,
measuring each second between mercy and fate.
Will it be today
or could it be tomorrow
when the hourglass shatters at His command?

🏁 The Banter at Tanvic 🛞  
At Tanvic’s desk, where the bustle hums,  
Come clinks of mugs and rolling thumbs.  
With wit as sharp as a socket wrench,  
They greet each customer with a banter trench.

“Need tyres mate? Let’s sort you right,  
All-season grip or pure delight?”  
One checks the tread with eagle eyes,  
While tossing jokes that catch surprise.

"Brake pads worn? That squeal’s a clue.
We'll fix it up, no stress for you."  
The team’s a blend of skill and jest,  
With torque guns and stories, they’re simply the best.

Need a bulb? A filter? Or wiper blade?  
Advice rains down like a retro arcade.  
"You could use a new belt, not for trousers, mind,
Though we do admire that vintage find!"

They shuffle quotes and scribble keys,  
As laughter drifts on oil-scented breeze.  
Behind the counter, hearts rev loud,  
Tanvic's crew: proud, quick, and ploughed—

Through greasy gears and Monday blues,  
They’re the roadside poets in steel-toe shoes.  
So if your car’s in need of care,  
Their banter’s worth the time you spare.

I love when traffic flows like dreams –
said nobody ever, in rush hour screams.
And Mondays? A warm embrace.
Especially with deadlines breathing in your face.

“Please, more spam emails,” they plead with grace –
said nobody ever, not one trace.
I cherish the printer’s stubborn stall,
mid-report, mid-panic, down the hall.

Dishwater coffee, ambrosia divine –
said nobody ever, not even in line.
And meetings that could've been one line of text,
are truly the moments I cherish the next.

Oh joy, another group chat ping! –
said nobody ever, in the midst of a meeting.
There's nothing like socks lost in the wash,
or autocorrect turning love into squash.

But still we smile, and carry on,
with half-done mornings and the curtains drawn.
For life’s absurdities have a clever tether:
they’re oddly poetic - said nobody ever.

You hold the slender stick of incense  
between thumb and forefinger,
a quiet question framed in sandalwood.  

A tap of flame at its tip  
awakens latent murmurs  
that curl upward in a pale spiral.  

Smoke drifts like a slow confession,  
tracing loops in the still air,
an unseen calligraphy of scent.  

Each breath you draw expands  
that hidden manuscript:  
cloves, myrrh, cedar; fingers of dusk.  

At the stick’s hollow heart, the flame wanes,  
leaving a halo of ember  
that shifts from red to ash.  

Grey granules rain in silent punctuation,  
each flake a remnant phrase  
of transformation written in dust.  

Your palm catches the residue,
a fine, silver testament  
to what must become nothing.  

The aroma lingers,  
a ghost ache in the room,  
mapping absence where presence bloomed.  

Ash drifts down like memories;
tender, ephemeral, luminous;  
and the stick stands hushed, hollowed.  

In that hollow core, you glimpse  
the space between flame and ash,  
presence and departure.  

You cradle the empty stick  
as if it still holds a promise,  
a threshold waiting to be crossed.

You *****!
You twitching tick of a man,
clogging lanes with your choked-up ego,
your mirror’s a shrine to your own smug face,
overtook like the rules were quaint,
like courtesy was some antique word
you'd auctioned off for a moment’s gain.

You *****!
sharp with nothing beneath,
your car a coffin for grace and tact,
steering through lives like they’re backdrop noise,
your brake lights blink like cheap excuses.

I saw you with your slipstream swagger,
the sneer worn like a braid of barbed wire,
and I wondered,
not if you’d crash,
but if you ever learned how to slow.

You were the storm’s rehearsal snarl rehearsed in chrome,

Your lane-change a fault line, a tectonic shrug beneath civility’s crust.
Your overtaking not motion, but motive
a hunger to be first in a race no one else was running.

Your indicators are Morse for mayhem,
-- .- -.-- .... . --
a signal sent to nobody,
because you only speak in static.

And yet, silence followed,
the hush of cars coasting beside restraint,
the world not clattering in outrage
but watching,
like a cat beneath streetlights.

I didn’t yell.
I counted the trees instead,
their branches like bones with secrets,
their leaves whispering forgiveness
to the wind that never apologised.

The road held us both me, and him,
like it does every stranger in love with arrival.