Poetry

Valve

In the quiet workshop, brass sings, A valve turns, a modest hinge, Guarding flow with patient might, Opening, closing, day and night. From steam‑kissed railways to the heart’s own drum, It whispers where the liquids

Dumbarton

On the Clyde’s quiet reach, where the waters gleam, Stands Dumbarton Rock, a guardian of dream. Its ancient stones recall a regal past, When kings would walk the battlements, steadfast and vast.

Sonar

Beneath the briny deep’s cold shroud, A sonar pulse sends out its sound— A whispered click that seeks the gloom, Returning echoes from the tomb Of sunken hull and silent shoal, Painting the ocean’s hidden

Cliftonville

Cliftonville’s quiet streets awaken With mist that clings to terraced rows, Where pastel doors and sash‑windows Whisper stories the tide now knows. The seafront promenade sighs softly, Gulls carving arcs above the pier, Their

Poser

The poser sits where light is low, A measured sip, a joke they know Will land just right—too keen, too slick, Their laughter hits a fraction thick. They name-drop bands no one's heard yet, Adjust

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