Poetry

Butte

Upon the rolling heath, a lone butte lifts, Its tabletop a steadfast stage, Against the drifting clouds it drifts, A quiet monument of age. The winds that sweep the surrounding plain Whisper tales

Doncaster Rovers

Green and white, the Keepmoat lights, Doncaster Rovers on the night. From Belle Vue’s echo to the modern pitch, Fans roar like thunder, hearts that twitch. A league of dreams, a clash

Pshaw

Pshaw! the wind may whisper through the linden, But I’ll not heed the gossip’s petty spin. With a curt “pshaw” I brush aside the bother, And let the world’s mild foolishness drift like

Swansea City

Green and white upon the Vetch, Where the Welsh wind hums a low chant. Swansea City, steady as the tide, Your scarves unfurl like sea‑foam ribbons, Chasing dreams across the emerald pitch, Passes slick as

Steak

On a sizzling grill the steak does lie, A ribeye thick, with marbled sigh. We baste it slow with rosemary thyme, Turn each side, listen to the primal chime. When juices run, a ruby

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