Poetry

Prude

In quiet lanes where primroses bow, A prude does walk with measured tread, Her gaze averse to any row, She shields her soul from idle thread. She sips her Earl Grey, steeped

Carom

Carom On the green baize, a quiet stage, the cue‑ball waits in patient gauge, its polished skin a moonlit sphere, ready to whisper, “draw us near.” A tap, a sigh, the stroke takes

Laden

Laden in the mist of early dawn, A lorry rumbles down the lane, Its chassis bowed beneath the weight Of crates that spill their ruby rain— Apples bruised, yet sweetly bright, Each one a whisper

Inlet

An inlet breathes between the cliffs, A quiet mouth where sea and stone entwine, Its waters murmur, soft as lullabies, Carrying the scent of kelp and brine. At dawn the tide lifts

Charlton Athletic

Charlton Athletic – A Valley Verse In the shadow of South‑East London’s sky, Where the Thames sighs past Greenwich’s old piers, Stands The Valley, a ground that won’t say die, Home to the Addicks

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