Poetry

Linfield

At Windsor’s hallowed turf the shadows fall, Where Linfield’s crest, a scarlet lion, gleams— A century’s echo in each fervent call, A hymn of hope that blends old faith with dreams. The

Middlesbrough

Middlesbrough, where the Tees rolls slow, Its iron lungs once breathed the world’s bright glow— From blast furnaces’ sooty hymn, To bridges that sigh above the whim. The Transporter stands, a steel‑grey

Smile

In the hush of a rainy afternoon, Your smile breaks the grey like a thin shaft of light, Warm as a fresh‑baked scone, soft as a woollen scarf, It turns the bustling tube

Whither the Linnet?

Whither the Linnet? Through bramble‑kissed hedgerows, where the blackthorn sighs, the linnet flits—a flash of rust‑tinged breast, its melody a soft, bewildered hymn that drifts on summer’s lazy, amber breeze. It

Wycombe Wanderers

In the quiet folds of Buckinghamshire, Where the Thames whispers and the fields are green, Stands Adams Park, a modest stage, Where the Chairboys chase a timeless dream. Their kit a clash

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