Poetry

Fence

Along the garden’s quiet edge, A humble fence in weathered wood, It marks the line where petals pledge Their colours to the neighbourhood. It watches children’s laughing feet, Stops wandering dogs with patient

Harrogate Town

In the heart of North Yorkshire’s rolling green, Harrogate Town sits, a quiet dream. Its cobbled streets and Georgian grace Whisper of a bygone, genteel place. The Stray unfurls like a emerald

Snipe

In reed‑bed hush the snipe does rise, A flash of mottled brown and grey, Its long bill probes the soggy earth, While mist clings low at break of day. Bird watchers hold their breath,

Kim Kardiganashian

Kim Kardiganashian strolls through Hyde Park’s grey, Her silhouette a whisper ’mid the morning’s spray. She sips Earl Grey, a cup held close to chest, While double‑decker buses hum their quiet jest. The

Clunk

Clunk In the quiet of the workshop, a spanner slips from greasy hands, its steel kisses the concrete floor— a single, resonant clunk. It echoes like a distant bell, summoning thoughts of rusted gears, of locomotives sighing

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