Poetry

Swindon Town

At the County Ground, beneath a Wiltshire sky, Swindon Town takes the pitch in claret and white, A steady roar rises from the faithful, As the Robins chase victory with quiet might.

Lorry

On the motorway’s long, quiet stretch, A rumbling lorry claims its pace, Its bright red paint a flashing fetch, Against the grey of road‑side space. The cab, a modest, steel‑capped dome, Holds a

Shill

In the bustling high street’s humming queue, A voice rings out, bright and slick, A shill with a grin that’s ever‑true, Selling dreams with a practised trick. He whispers of bargains, rare

Diver

Beneath the sky‑kissed tide, the diver slips, A quiet silhouette against the blue, With fins that whisper like the sea‑foam’s tips, He glides where sun‑lit shafts of water brew. His breath—a steady

Churn

In the quiet dairy of the village green, A wooden churn sits, its oak worn smooth, Waiting for the milk to thicken, to be seen Turning slow as thoughts in a wistful youth.

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