Poetry

Grill

The grill begins its low, contented hum, Awaiting reign of flame and glowing coal. It’s not just metal, but a summer’s drum, Calling forth the feast that makes us whole. Sausages leap, a cheerful,

Bournemouth

Bournemouth’s seafront glistens in the amber glow, Where golden sands meet the restless, sapphire tide. The pier stretches out, a wooden promenade, Echoing laughter of children who slide and glide. Victorian villas

Strip

A slender strip of linen, white as winter’s dawn, Unfurling slow across the loft’s exposed floorboards, It catches the weak sun, a quiet, trembling braid That maps the grain of timber, whispers of

Montrose

Montrose Upon the silver bend of Tay, where gulls in soft applause still sway, the town of Montrose awakes each dawn, its cobbled streets a quiet yawn. Old stone walls, with

Tribe

We gather round the fire’s warm glow, A circle where the old tales flow— Each voice a thread in woven cloth, A tribe that beats with single oath. From mountain mist to

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