Poetry

Connah's Quay Nomads

In the heart of Flintshire’s quiet grace, Where the Dee’s soft tide meets ancient stone, Stands Connah’s Quay Nomads, a modest place, Where every match feels like coming home. Their crest bears

Penal

In the grey hush of stone‑cold wings, where iron bars hum a low, relentless chant, the penal air clings to breath like soot, each sigh a tally of time’s ledger. Footsteps echo

Glenavon

Glenavon In the hush of twilight over Glenavon’s vale, Where mist entwines with heather’s purple flare, The river sighs a soft, enduring tale, Reflecting sky’s pale, ever‑changing air. Old stone walls stand like

Slush

In the hush of dawn the city wakes, A thin veil of slush upon the grey‑kissed streets, Where lorry tyres sigh and pavements gleam, Each step a soft, reluctant splash beneath weary feet.

Truro City

In the heart of Cornwall, where mist rolls soft and low, Stands Truro City, a quiet jewel aglow. Its cathedral spire pierces the slate‑grey sky, A stone‑kissed sentinel watching time drift by.

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