Poetry

Carrick Rangers

At the edge of Larne Lough where the sea mist rolls, Carrick Rangers stride, their hearts in loyal rolls. From the terraces of Taylors Avenue’s old stand, Echoes chant the blues that sweep

Morecambe

Morecambe’s bay awakes at dawn, A stretch of gold where gulls withdraw, The tide draws lace upon the sand, And paints the sky in pastel awe. The promenade hums with vintage charm, Ice‑cream

Sunderland

On the banks of the Wear, where the keel meets the tide, Old shipyards whisper of a sturdy pride. Red‑brick terraces line the winding streets, Where miners once sang and the fishwives greet.

Millwall

At the Den, where the river sighs, Red and blue banners flutter under grey skies, Millwall’s roar, a lion’s low growl, Echoes through streets where the dockworkers prowl. From the terraces’ chant

Niece

My niece, a spark of bright delight, With laughter soft as summer’s sigh, She dances through the garden light, Her eyes alight with curious sky. She gathers daisies in her hand, A tiny

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