Boots opens its doors, a quiet sanctuary of care,
The hum of morning settles, soft as whispers in the air.
A clock ticks steady, and so do I, for a check once a year,
To hear what’s changed - or hasn’t - in the rhythms of my ear.

The audiologist greets with a steady grin,
Tools in hand, ready to begin.
A soundwave symphony, a careful refrain,
And he reveals: my hearing’s barely changed again.

We laugh at my quirks, left more than right,
"A bit in the middle keeps you in the fight!"
“Well,” I grin, “I’m balanced, I suppose,”
In a world of echoes, quirks, and prose.

This place, this test, reminds me anew
To listen well to the life breaking through.
Barely changed but steady still, my ears hold the tune,
In this room at Boots, under the morning moon.

Rose, oh Rose, the queen of class,  
She’s dressed in silk, selling wine and grass.  
“Organic kale, it’s simply divine!”  
She twirls her trolley, a shopping shrine.  

Sain strolls by, with a cheeky grin,  
“Rose, dear, not everyone’s posh within!  
My aisles have deals that make hearts sing,
From the Basics line to the finest bling!”  

Tes rushes in with a clatter and cheer,  
“Stop squabbling, mates, I’m here for the steer!  
Clubcard's flashing like disco lights,  
I serve the masses with snacks for their nights!”  

Rose scoffs, “Tes, you’re much too loud.  
Your aisle décor? A tad less proud.”  
Sain adds, “And what’s with the bargain craze?  
Do shoppers dance through your maze?”  

Tes winks, “They sure do! I’m fun and bold,  
My shelves are stacked, my produce gold!  
Rose is posh, and Sain’s okay,  
But Tes  rocks - it’s hip all day!”  

And so they bicker, a trio delight,  
Rose rolls her eyes, Sain laughs outright.  
Tes bustles on with his Clubcard dream,  
While shoppers weave through their retail scheme.  

They’re rivals, it’s true, but in their zest,  
Rose, Sain, and Tes are retail’s best.  
For amidst the banter, one thing is clear—  
Every shop has a place we hold dear.

In the gentle glow of Easter morn, New Springs Church wakes with the promise of new light. Within these walls, a quiet marvel is born - Jonathon Viera, the classically trained singer, taking flight with piano keys echoing decades of sacred song, each note a prayer, each pause a hymn of belonging.

His fingers, memory-laden with operatic art, dance upon the ivories with effortless grace. Here, tradition and revival merge in a single heart where his journey - from eloquent classical training to soulful pop delight, a beacon of hope and light.

The space reverberates with melodies both old and new, resonating like a timeless vow of faith renewed. Each chord, each verse, tells a tale of struggle and breakthrough, of a pilgrim whose voice bridges worlds, tenderly imbued with the passion of a man who sings to remind us all: that in every humble note, life's miracles recall.

In this sacred sanctuary on Easter Sunday, as voices join in prayerful refrain and hearts unite, Jonathon’s song transforms the mundane into a sacred display of art and reverence - a banquet of sound and light. A reminder that every life, every song sung in this space, carries the resonance of a divine, everlasting embrace.

And as the notes drift, weaving through the congregation's prayer, one feels the subtle echo of a legacy so thoughtfully penned— a lyrical journey of a classically trained soul whose music reaches out to mend. May this sonata of renewal remind us, as each chord unfurls, that our lives, like his melodies, are interwoven with the eternal world.

Laughter spills -
sunlight streams,
ripples of gold,
dreams unbound.

Children leap,
arms to the sky,
chasing joy
without asking why.

No walls,
no thought,
just pure delight,
their laughter so bright.

Voices echo,
bellies shake,
a symphony
innocence makes.

Faces glow,
mirth lights skies,
worlds reborn,
joy unties.

Oh, to pause -
to stop and play -
to bask in laughter
and let life sway.

So life hits hard, it’s a twist in the plot,
A moment unexpected, ready or not.
The test says yes, now the world’s in a spin,
Questions flood in - where do you begin?

Fear creeps in, how will they react?
Mum and Dad - will they judge, turn their back?
The truth feels heavy, a weight on your chest,
You rehearse the words, but they’re hard to express.

Finally, you speak, the silence breaks,
Your voice shakes hard, your heart aches.
But they listen close, their eyes reveal,
The bond of love, the strength they feel.

It’s not just shock - it’s care, it’s grace,
They hold you tight in a warm embrace.
“You’re not alone,” Mum softly says,
Dad adds, “We’ll walk with you through these days.”

Strength runs deep, it’s there in your soul,
Facing the unknown, you’re taking control.
Unplanned doesn’t mean you’re lost or alone,
It’s a journey of love, a path of your own.

They’ve gone to rest, a peaceful sleep,
A journey taken, vast and deep.
They’ve crossed the river, sailed the tide,
To golden shores where dreams reside.

They’ve passed away, a fleeting breath,
A quiet exit, not called death.
They’ve slipped beyond, a soft goodbye,
To touch the stars that light the sky.

They’ve met their end, yet not in vain,
A final chapter, free from pain.
They’ve gone to glory, found their peace,
A boundless calm, a sweet release.

They’ve shuffled off this mortal coil,
Returned to earth, to rest in soil.
They’ve joined the ages, the great unknown,
A timeless realm, a world their own.

And though we fear to name it true,  
These words we weave, a softer hue.  
For in their leaving, love remains,  
A thread unbroken, through joy and pain.

The Spark of Questions
Before the first line, before the first word,
There stirs a longing, quiet, unheard.
A dance of questions, restless and free,
Beckons the writer: “Come, follow me.”

Through the folds of time, in the still of night,
In whispers of wonder, in glimpses of light,
Each query lingers, each muse takes its place,
A journey begins through the boundless space.

What will you answer? Where will it lead?
The seed of creation starts with a need.
And so, with each question, the page comes alive,
A mirror of thought, where stories survive.

When Will You Write?
When will you write, dear keeper of tales,
When the morning mist lingers or evening pales?
Do words not stir in the chambers of thought,
Waiting for freedom, a canvas long sought?

The paper lies still, a world yet to be,
A mirror of dreams, of all you could see.
Do you hear its call, soft yet profound,
Whispering secrets without a sound?

When will you write, as the moments pass,
The ticking of time on an hourglass?
Will you let the silence speak through your hand,
Crafting new worlds where hearts expand?

The muse is patient, yet fleeting at best,
Will you answer now or delay the quest?
For the voice within, so eager, so slight,
Asks but one question: “When will you write?”

What Will You Write?
What will you write, with the world at your hand?
Will it be oceans or deserts of sand?
Will it be whispers, soft as a sigh,
Or a cry to the stars that pierce the sky?

What will you write, in the stillness of night,
When thoughts flicker faint, yet burn so bright?
Will you tell of love, of joy, of pain,
Or dance with the shadows that call your name?

Will it be journeys to lands unknown,
Or the humblest truths that you've always known?
Will it be fire that sparks a new flame,
Or an echo of silence, a nameless name?

What will you write, with each fleeting breath?
A tale of beginnings, or whispers of death?
For each word you choose is a seed to sow,
What will it bloom? Only you will know.

Why Will You Write?
Why will you write, with ink that bleeds true?
What calls your heart to paint its view?
Is it the weight of a story untold,
Or the rush of a dream that won’t be controlled?

Will you write for the joy that the words may bring,
For the echoes they shape, for the songs they sing?
Or perhaps to mend what time could not,
To piece together what memory forgot.

Why will you write, when silence prevails,
Will it soothe a heart or tip the scales?
Will it carve out truths from tangled doubt,
Or whisper the secrets that can’t come out?

Perhaps you write to leave a trace,
A mark of yourself in life’s vast space.
To make sense of chaos, to name the unnamed,
To capture a world forever framed.

Why will you write, the muse will ask,
For pleasure, for freedom, or just the task?
The answer is yours—raw, undefined,
A glimpse of your soul through words enshrined.

Where Will You Write?
Where will you write, when the words take flight?
In the quiet of dawn or the depths of night?
Will you seek the solitude of an empty room,
Or let your pen wander under moonlit gloom?

Will you write where whispers meet the sea,
On shores that hum with eternity?
Or beneath the trees, where shadows play,
With nature's rhythm to guide your way?

Where will you write, on the edge of a storm,
Where chaos and passion gather and swarm?
Or will it be peace that cradles your thought,
A sanctuary of stillness, where time is naught?

Will you write in the heart of the city’s roar,
Where the pulse of life demands much more?
Or perched on a hill, where the sky expands,
And the world feels small in your open hands?

Where will you write, the question will say,
In places unknown or just where you stay?
For the space you choose holds the seeds to grow,
Each word a path to the worlds you’ll show.

The Writer’s Journey
Through questions asked, a path unfolds,
A tale unwritten, yet quietly told.
When the pen will dance, what the ink will say,
Why the muse calls, where thoughts will stray.

Each query shapes the writer’s art,
A mirror of self, a map of the heart.
And so, the page, no longer bare,
Becomes a world crafted with care.

The quest to create is timeless and vast,
A whisper of future, a shadow of past.
For in these questions, answers ignite,
The boundless rhythm of those who write.