Poetry

Stenhousemuir

Stenhousemuir In the gentle curve of the Forth’s own sigh, Stenhousemuir cradles its modest streets, Where terraced cottages lean against the sky, And the river whispers soft, historic beats. The old mill’s rusted

Amend

Amend In quiet rooms where ink still bleeds, We trace the seams of thought and deed, A gentle hand, a measured sway, To soften edges, set aright. The draft, a garden, wild and bright, Needs pruning

Arsenal

At the Emirates, beneath a sky of North London grey, The Gunners stride, their hearts a steady, claret‑blue beat. A chorus rises from the terraces, a faithful, fervent fray, Where every pass recalls

Demon

In the gloom of night’s thin veil, A demon walks where shadows fray, His eyes like coals of smouldering coal, His breath a sigh of sulphur‑kissed gale. He haunts the ruins of

Sling

In the garden’s quiet hush, a child swings A humble sling of woven twine, Its leather pouch a cradle for smooth stone, Whispering promises of flight and aim. The elastic sings—a taut,

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