Poetry

Falkirk

Falkirk, where the Forth slips gently past, Old stone bridges whisper of centuries past. The Wheel turns slow, a steel‑spoked prayer, Lifting boats as if they were air. From the Antonine Wall’s

Barnsley

In Barnsley’s rolling Yorkshire hills, Where stone‑capped roofs meet grey‑blue skies, The market square still hums with wills Of traders calling under wintry sighs. The old pit wheels, now silent, stand Like sentinels

Entry

At the threshold of morning’s pale light, I pause upon the worn‑stone sill, The brass knob cool beneath my palm, A quiet promise in the still. With a breath that steadies like

Leicester City

In the heart of the Midlands, where the River Soar glides, Leicester City wear their blue with quiet pride. From Filbert Street’s old echoes to the King Power’s roar, Foxes slip through defences,

Arbroath

In the Angus breeze where cliffs sigh low, Arbroath clings to ancient stone and tide, Where smoky fish curl in amber glow, And monks once whispered, side by side. The Abbey’s arches,

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