Poetry

Pshaw

Pshaw! the wind may whisper through the linden, But I’ll not heed the gossip’s petty spin. With a curt “pshaw” I brush aside the bother, And let the world’s mild foolishness drift like

Swansea City

Green and white upon the Vetch, Where the Welsh wind hums a low chant. Swansea City, steady as the tide, Your scarves unfurl like sea‑foam ribbons, Chasing dreams across the emerald pitch, Passes slick as

Steak

On a sizzling grill the steak does lie, A ribeye thick, with marbled sigh. We baste it slow with rosemary thyme, Turn each side, listen to the primal chime. When juices run, a ruby

Dungannon Swifts

At Stangmore’s gentle, mist‑kissed ground, Where the red and white of Swifts are found, A town’s pride runs deep in every chant, Dungannon’s heart beats fierce and grant. From humble roots to

Stout

In the dim glow of the tavern’s fire, A stout sits dark as midnight’s mire, Its head a creamy, soft attire, Whispering of roasted barley’s choir. Each sip a warm, robust surprise, A

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