Poetry

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

Satin

Satin slips like whispered sighs, A smooth, moon‑lit river flowing through the night, Its glossy surface catching light— A soft, cool caress that clings, then flies. In drawing rooms of velvet hush, Where

Preston North End

Deepdale's terraces, terracotta old, Where Preston North End's story first took flight. Founded in eighty-eight, both brave and bold, The first to claim the league's emergent light. They went through seasons undefeated,

Umbra

In the quiet hush of evening’s sigh, The sun withdraws its golden seam, And leaves behind a solemn sigh— An umbra draped in twilight’s dream. It folds the hills in sable silk, Where

Budge

Budge In the quiet of the morning, the cat lies stretched upon the rug, a soft, unyielding mound of fur— she will not budge, she will not tug. The clock ticks

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