Poetry

Clock

In the hallway’s quiet corner stands the old oak clock, Its brass face gleaming like a silvered pond at dawn, The pendulum sways, a steady sigh of time, Each swing a whispered promise,

Newly

Newly The seed splits open, barely seen, A thread of green where grey had been. Not loudly, not with fanfare's call, But softly, simply—newly, all. The dewdrop clings to spider's thread, A diamond where nothing was

Brackley Town

Brackley Town In gentle Northamptonshire’s rolling fold, Where cobbled lanes and market stalls unfold, Brackley Town awakes to morning light, A quiet charm that guards the day and night. The old stone church,

Parka

In the blustery British winter, when the wind bites keen, A sturdy parka hangs beside the door, its hood a silent screen. Cotton‑lined, with a fur‑trimmed collar, it wards off the drizzle’s

Luton Town

Luton Town, where fields of green lay neat, A hatters’ pride on Bedfordshire’s beat, From Kenilworth Road’s historic roar, To dreams that soar beyond the shore. The scarlet shirts, a blaze of

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