Poetry

Uncut

Uncut In the hush before the blade, a sheet lies waiting, pure and unmade, its edges smooth as morning mist, a promise held in quiet twist. No scissors yet have whispered there, no ruler’s line to

Oxford United

At the Kassam’s humble ground, where the Oxon breeze does sigh, Oxford United stride in white, their hopes beneath the sky. From the chant of the faithful throng to the echo of

Capon

In farmyard chorus, loud and shrill, The capon holds a different skill: No cock-a-doodle breaks his rest, He’s plump and soft, supremely blessed. No strutting spur, no fierce reply, Just gentle pecking, low and shy. While

Stoke City

At the banks where Trent’s slow waters wind, The red and white of Stoke endure, From Burslem’s kilns to modern wind, Where faithful hearts remain secure. The Potters rise on winter’s chill, Their

Click

A gentle tap upon the screen, A soft, familiar sound, Each click a tiny universe unseen, Where thoughts and dreams are bound. In quiet rooms or bustling streets, It punctuates our day— A punctuation

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