Poetry

Livingston

Livingston – a name that whispers of the West, Where once the hills lay soft in heather’s sigh, Now streets of concrete stretch and softly rest Beneath the watchful eye of cloud‑lit sky.

Etude

Etude In quiet rooms where practice sighs, A single phrase repeats its sighs— Each note a careful, patient thread, A weave of sound where doubts are shed. The fingers trace the

The Battle of Evesham

The Battle of Evesham Upon the fields where Severn bends, The banners rose in brave array, De Montfort’s host, with steadfast hearts, Met Edward’s strength upon the fray. Their spears a forest, bright

Linfield

At Windsor’s hallowed turf the shadows fall, Where Linfield’s crest, a scarlet lion, gleams— A century’s echo in each fervent call, A hymn of hope that blends old faith with dreams. The

Middlesbrough

Middlesbrough, where the Tees rolls slow, Its iron lungs once breathed the world’s bright glow— From blast furnaces’ sooty hymn, To bridges that sigh above the whim. The Transporter stands, a steel‑grey

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