Poetry

Canal

On quiet mornings when the mist clings to the water’s glassy skin, the canal sighs beneath a low‑sky, a silver thread through town and field. Narrowboats drift, their paint a faded hue, reds

West Bromwich Albion

At the Hawthorns, where the rivers meet, The Baggies stride in navy‑blue and white, Their hearts beat steady to the town’s own beat, A chorus rises from the faithful’s sight. From Fred’s

Coleraine

Coleraine, where the Bann’s calm waters sigh, Stone‑bridge arches span the old town’s eye. Morning mist drapes the hills in soft, green hue, While market stalls hum with Ulster’s true hue. From ancient abbey

Exeter City

Exeter City, pride of the Devon hills, In crimson and white they chase the thrill. St James’ Park echoes with loyal song, Where Grecians march, both brave and strong. From the Exe’s gentle flow to

I Swear

I swear upon the quiet tide, To keep my promises, true and wide. In every breath I take, I’ll stand, With honest heart and steadfast hand. No shadow of deceit shall mar The word I

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