Poetry

Sandy

Sandy Not golden, not quite brown, but soft and grand, A thousand tiny stones slipped through your hand. It clings to toes, a persistent, gritty trace, Found where the sea kissed the sun-warmed space.

Singe

Singe A flicker kisses the frayed hem, A breath of flame that dares not blaze— Just enough to singe the linen’s seam, Leaving amber traces in a haze. It is the

Sober

Sober In the hush of early dawn, when the pub’s last glasses clink, I walk the cobbled lane, my thoughts as clear as winter ink. No amber haze to blur the edge of

Fizzy

Fizzy In a tall glass the lemonade waits, a pale‑yellow promise of sunshine, its surface a still lagoon— until the first tap releases a whisper of escaping gas, a soft hiss that sighs like a secret

Stirling University

Stirling University Upon the amber banks of the Forth, where river whispers meet the rustle of oak and pine, the campus spreads—stone cloisters and modern glass— a quiet dialogue between past and

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives