Poetry

Baton

In the hush before the stadium’s roar, a slender baton waits, polished steel, its tip catching the afternoon light like a promise passed between eager palms. Relay runners clutch it tight, feet pounding

Woking

In the leafy shires of Surrey lies a town called Woking, Where the River Wey still winds and the railway winds beside. Victorian brick and modern glass sit side by side in

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

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