Poetry

Prawn

Ode to the Prawn In silken shells of blushing pink, They drift where tide and current meet, A quiet ballet 'neath the sea‑foam brink, Where sunlight twirls in liquid sheet. Their antennae flick

Trace

In quiet lanes where footsteps fade, A trace remains, a whispered shade— A scent of rain on cobblestones, A fleeting mark where light has shone. It lives in ink that stains the

Bangor

Bangor On the banks where the Dee meets the tide, Old Bangor stands with a quiet pride. Stone‑cobbled streets and slate‑roofed rows, Whisper tales that the river knows. From the pier,

Murky

Murky In the twilight of the marsh, where reeds whisper secrets thick, the water lies a shrouded grey, a mirror to the overcast sky. Shadows drift beneath the surface, swirling silt like ghostly thoughts, each ripple a

Dunfermline Athletic

East End Park on a Saturday grey, Where the Pars prepare for another day. Scarves of black and white held high and tight, Underneath the floodlights' golden light. From Leishman's grace to

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