Poetry

Stirling Albion

Stirling Albion Och, the Binos take the field at Annfield’s humble ground, Where black and white hoops flash like the Wallace Monument’s stone, A chorus of scarf‑wrapped voices rises from the town, Echoing over

Sandy

Sandy Not golden, not quite brown, but soft and grand, A thousand tiny stones slipped through your hand. It clings to toes, a persistent, gritty trace, Found where the sea kissed the sun-warmed space.

Singe

Singe A flicker kisses the frayed hem, A breath of flame that dares not blaze— Just enough to singe the linen’s seam, Leaving amber traces in a haze. It is the

Sober

Sober In the hush of early dawn, when the pub’s last glasses clink, I walk the cobbled lane, my thoughts as clear as winter ink. No amber haze to blur the edge of

Fizzy

Fizzy In a tall glass the lemonade waits, a pale‑yellow promise of sunshine, its surface a still lagoon— until the first tap releases a whisper of escaping gas, a soft hiss that sighs like a secret

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