Poetry

Notch

The notch upon my well-worn belt, A tiny mark, cut keen and neat, Not for the feast that I once felt, But for the miles I walked each week. It's not a trophy, gleaming

Untitled

Untitled In the hush of early dawn, the mist clings to the cobblestones like silk, softly draping the lanterns that sigh in amber halos over sleepy streets. A sparrow flits from

Peterborough United

In the heart of Cambridgeshire’s flat lands, Where the Nene winds slow and the skies turn grey, Stands London Road, the Posh’s proud abode, A ground where hope and hard work meet each

Burnley

Burnley’s streets, a woven thread of wool, Where brick and soot have shaped a northern soul, From textile looms that sang the town’s refrain To hills that sigh beneath a grey‑tinged rain.

Gillingham

Where Medway's waters slow and deep, Past ancient docks where sailors sleep, Gillingham lies in Kentish grace, A town that time cannot erase. No glossy sprawl, no neon glare, Just steady streets and

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