Poetry

Putty

Putty, humble paste of dough, Moulded soft by steady hand, It fills the cracks where time has flown, A quiet cure for walls that stand. In glazier’s shop it sits await, A supple

Queen’s Park

In Queen’s Park the lilacs sigh, Their purple heads bow low to sky, While ancient oaks stand guard, austere, Whispering tales of yesteryear. Children’s laughter rings like bells, Across the grass where daffodils

Orbit

In silent night the silvered sphere takes flight, A whispered dance around the earth’s soft glow, Each steady turn a promise, calm and bright, Where gravity and wonder gently flow. Our thoughts, like satellites,

Swindon Town

At the County Ground, beneath a Wiltshire sky, Swindon Town takes the pitch in claret and white, A steady roar rises from the faithful, As the Robins chase victory with quiet might.

Lorry

On the motorway’s long, quiet stretch, A rumbling lorry claims its pace, Its bright red paint a flashing fetch, Against the grey of road‑side space. The cab, a modest, steel‑capped dome, Holds a

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