Poetry

Rangers

On mist‑clad hills where heather sighs, The Rangers tread with steady eyes, Their boots imprint the ancient peat, A silent watch where wild things meet. Through tangled glen and pine‑clad scar, They guard

Maven

Ode to the Maven In the quiet hush of night’s code‑laden sigh, A maven stirs, where logic and curiosity lie, Her mind a loom, weaving threads of insight, Turning opaque specs into

Portadown

Portadown – where the Bann sighs beneath old stone bridges, its waters whispering tales of linen looms and soot‑streaked mills, the clang of the railway a steady heartbeat beside the towpath, where lorries

Demur

Demur In the quiet hush of a courthouse stair, She lifts her gaze, a breath held tight, A murmur rises — soft, demure — A pause that crowns the weight of right. The judge’s

The New Saints

The New Saints In quiet streets where lanterns gleam, They walk not in robe nor haloed dream, But in the stead of work‑worn hands, A cup of tea, a lent a hand. They

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