Poetry

Wealdstone

Wealdstone – where the old forest sighs beneath the stone, A whisper of leaf‑laden glades that once stretched far and wide, Now tucked beneath railway arches and the hum of the Metropolitan

Testy

Testy as a kettle left upon the hob, Its whistle shrill, a frown that won’t unwind, Each word a spark, each glance a sudden throb, A temper sparked where patience runs behind.

Plymouth Argyle

Green and White Dream At Home Park the gulls wheel low, Where sea‑spray mists the terraces, And the Argyle faithful sing, A chorus that rides the wind. From the clatter of the turnstiles To the thud

Rotherham United

At the New York Stadium the floodlights gleam, A sea of red and white, the Millers’ dream. From Yorkshire’s heart they stride onto the pitch, Where every tackle sings a loyal stitch.

Align

Align In the quiet of a morning tide, the gulls align their wings with the wind, each feather a line drawn on the sky— a silent pact between air and wing.

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