Poetry

Strip

A slender strip of linen, white as winter’s dawn, Unfurling slow across the loft’s exposed floorboards, It catches the weak sun, a quiet, trembling braid That maps the grain of timber, whispers of

Montrose

Montrose Upon the silver bend of Tay, where gulls in soft applause still sway, the town of Montrose awakes each dawn, its cobbled streets a quiet yawn. Old stone walls, with

Tribe

We gather round the fire’s warm glow, A circle where the old tales flow— Each voice a thread in woven cloth, A tribe that beats with single oath. From mountain mist to

Cheltenham Town

Cheltenham Town – the Robins’ scarlet wing, A modest ground where hopes take flight. Whittington’s green, the roar that sings Of passing boots and earnest fight. From the terraces the chants arise, A chorus of

Aspic

In copper pots the broth does sigh, A shimmering veil of aspic lies, Its jelly holds the rosemary’s sigh, And carrots wink beneath its chilling guise. With tender morsels of game or fish, Each slice

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