Lincoln City

Lincoln City – a quiet jewel on the Witham’s sigh,
Where cobbled lanes remember Roman tread,
And the cathedral’s spire pierces the grey sky,
A steadfast beacon where the past is fed.

The high street hums with tea‑room chatter,
Pubs pour real ale, their windows warm and low,
Market stalls display fresh local batter,
While football chants from Sincil Bank aglow.

In summer, the river glints like polished pewter,
Children chase gulls along the Brayford’s edge,
Winter brings a cosy, woolly feather,
As lanterns flicker on the historic pledge.

Here tradition and tomorrow gently meet,
In every stone, a story, softly sweet.