Poetry

Northampton Town

Northampton Town, where cobblestones recall the clang of tram‑bells and the hiss of steam, a market square where bustling voices call over stalls of cheese, fresh bread and cream. The River Nene

Runny

Runny yolk slides slow across the plate, A golden river on a Sunday brunch. Runny nose sniffles in the damp December air, While scarves are wrapped to keep the chill at bay. Runny Brie,

Nocturnal Blossoms: Petals of the Moon

Nocturnal Blossoms: Petals of the Moon In silver hush the garden sighs, Where night‑blooms lift their trembling heads, Their petals—pale as moonlit skies— Unfold in whispers, soft as thread. Each blossom

Olden

In the olden days when mist would cling to laneways, Cobblestones whispered tales of knights and dames, Their voices low, like hymns in ancient prayer, A world where time was measured by the

Reading

In quiet corners, where the lamp glows low, I turn each leaf, and worlds begin to flow. The rustle of paper, a soft, familiar sigh, Carries me past the limits of time and

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