Poetry

Waken

Waken, the world sighs into light, A hush of dew on meadows bright, The sparrow’s call, a soft refrain, Stirs sleepy hearts to rise again. From pillow‑soft to cobblestone street, Morning unfurls its

FC Halifax Town

FC Halifax Town, where the Shaymen gather, On the turf of the Shayne, beneath a Yorkshire sky. The Shaymen’s roar, a steady, proud chant, Echoes through the Shayne, as hopes take flight.

Snowy

Snowy whispers veil the town, White flakes drift like muted lace, Each breath a mist in chilly grace, Footsteps mute on powdered ground. Lamplight glows through frosted panes, Turning streets to hushed, soft

Theta

Theta, the eighth of Greek array, A curling stroke like a quiet bay. In maths it marks the angle’s bend, In physics, heat that trends to end. A symbol soft, yet ever keen, It whispers

Mister Krankie Meets the Klambake King

Mister Krankie, in his tartan coat, Strolled to the seaside where the crabs do note, He heard a clang, a jovial shout, The Klambake King was flipping trout. The King wore gloves

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