Poetry

Celtic

Mists rise from the ancient hills, Where stone‑circles guard forgotten songs, Bards whisper in a tongue that still Sings of warriors, lovers, and throngs. Heather‑clad moors wear emerald cloaks, Rivers carve verses through

Aloha

Aloha drifts across the sapphire sea, A gentle hush that kisses sun‑kissed sand. In every wave I hear the island’s plea – To share a smile, a warm, embracing hand. Here, under

Queens Park Rangers

At Loftus Road the hoops take flight, A claret‑blue sea beneath the night. Queens Park Rangers, proud and true, Chasing dreams in every hue. From the roar of the terraced stand, To the

Putty

Putty, humble paste of dough, Moulded soft by steady hand, It fills the cracks where time has flown, A quiet cure for walls that stand. In glazier’s shop it sits await, A supple

Queen’s Park

In Queen’s Park the lilacs sigh, Their purple heads bow low to sky, While ancient oaks stand guard, austere, Whispering tales of yesteryear. Children’s laughter rings like bells, Across the grass where daffodils

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