Poetry

Intel

In silicon halls where circuits hum, Intel's quiet pulse, a steady drum. From wafer thin to thought's bright gleam, It weaves the dreams of modern dream. Each transistor, a whispered thought, In British labs, by

Stop the boats

Against the horizon’s stubborn gleam, Where gulls wheel over restless seas, A plea drifts on the salty breeze— To halt the surge, to still the stream. No longer shall the tides bear

Blood

In ruby tides the veins do flow, A quiet pulse beneath the skin, Haemoglobin carries life’s soft glow, Each beat a whisper, deep within. It stains the cloth, it marks the ground, Yet in its

Crawley Town

In the heart of West Sussex, where the M23 sighs, Lies Crawley Town, a club that never says die. Red shirts flash like fire across Broadfield’s grass, While the fans chant loud, a

Tween

In the hush between the playground’s shout And the first sigh of teenage doubt, Lives the tween – a bright‑in‑between, Where crayon dreams and school‑day schemes Lean against the locker’s gleam, Half‑painted in the colours

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