Poetry

Yes, I Know It's Called 'Petrichor'

Yes, I Know It’s Called ‘Petrichor’ The clouds have wept and left their trace, A silver hush upon the chase, And from the thirsty, cracked earth’s breast A fragrant sigh is now

Cardiff City

Cardiff City, bold and bright, Where the Severn winds through night, Red‑clad hopes upon the grass, Echoes rise from Ninian’s pass. From the roar of Ninian Park To the glow of lights after

Boreham Wood

Boreham Wood, where quiet streets entwine With rows of terraced homes in sober brick, And evening light slips soft through leaf‑lined line, A modest pulse that beats both quick and thick. The

Agree

Agree In quiet corners of a room, Two voices find a steady hum— A nod, a smile, a shared assent, Where doubts dissolve like morning mist. We do not need to speak the

Blackburn Rovers

At Ewood Park the crowd does swell, A sea of blue that sings and yells, Where Rovers’ hearts beat strong and true— The pride of Lancashire, through and through. From factory floors

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