Poetry

Walsall

Walsall’s quiet streets, where leather’s scent still clings, A town of forges, where the blacksmith’s song once rang— Now brick and glass sit cheek‑by‑jowl with market stalls, And laughter spills from pubs on

Blind

In the hush of midnight, shadows fold, A world unseen, yet stories told— The blind see music in the wind, Feel colours pulse beneath the skin. Their fingertips trace braille constellations, Each raised

Manchester United

At the Theatre of Dreams, beneath a sky of grey, Red Devils march, their hearts in fierce display. Old Trafford roars, a chorus loud and proud, Where legends rise and echoes thrum aloud. From

Beige

In the quiet corners of a city flat, Beige drapes the walls in muted, patient grace— A soft embrace of sand‑washed stone, Where light sighs gently over wool and lace. It holds

Kelty Hearts

Kelty Hearts On the fringe of Fife where the green hills sigh, The Kelty Hearts take flight beneath a Scots‑blue sky. Their striped jerseys flash like clouds across the pitch, A chorus of voices—loyal,

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