My grandmother’s hands are stories,
creased like pages worn by years,
holding prayers beside the window,
hiding every child’s fears.
She cooks love into the kitchen,
stitches warmth in every seam,
turns ordinary days to gold
with kindness soft and clean.
And when the world grows cold at night,
her voice still lights the way,
a little piece of heaven lives
in everything she’d say.
Oliver is a poet of the highlands, writing extensively about local folklore, myth, and the absolute magic of the Scottish landscape. His verses are misty, atmospheric, and deeply rooted in the historical battles and romances...
The purple blooms across the moor,Outside my little cottage door.The wind sweeps through the rugged brush,And breaks the...
The dark water is deep and cold,With monster legends, brave and old.The castle ruins guard the shore,Where ancient...
The castle walls are hidden deep,Where all the ancient legends sleep.The green vines wrap the towers tight,Against the...