Poetry

Preston North End

Deepdale's terraces, terracotta old, Where Preston North End's story first took flight. Founded in eighty-eight, both brave and bold, The first to claim the league's emergent light. They went through seasons undefeated,

Umbra

In the quiet hush of evening’s sigh, The sun withdraws its golden seam, And leaves behind a solemn sigh— An umbra draped in twilight’s dream. It folds the hills in sable silk, Where

Budge

Budge In the quiet of the morning, the cat lies stretched upon the rug, a soft, unyielding mound of fur— she will not budge, she will not tug. The clock ticks

Gateshead

Gateshead By the lazy bend of the Tyne’s dark water, Where the bridges hum like low‑tuned violins, The town awakens beneath a slate‑grey sky, Its chimneys puffing soft, steady sighs. The

Liken

To liken is to whisper a mirror’s soft sigh, To see a rose in the cheek of a dawn‑kissed sky, To hold two thoughts, like hands clasped in quiet accord, And find in

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