Poetry

FC Halifax Town

FC Halifax Town, where the Shaymen gather, On the turf of the Shayne, beneath a Yorkshire sky. The Shaymen’s roar, a steady, proud chant, Echoes through the Shayne, as hopes take flight.

Snowy

Snowy whispers veil the town, White flakes drift like muted lace, Each breath a mist in chilly grace, Footsteps mute on powdered ground. Lamplight glows through frosted panes, Turning streets to hushed, soft

Theta

Theta, the eighth of Greek array, A curling stroke like a quiet bay. In maths it marks the angle’s bend, In physics, heat that trends to end. A symbol soft, yet ever keen, It whispers

Mister Krankie Meets the Klambake King

Mister Krankie, in his tartan coat, Strolled to the seaside where the crabs do note, He heard a clang, a jovial shout, The Klambake King was flipping trout. The King wore gloves

Wispy

Wispy as the morning mist that drifts over the quiet meadow, a sigh of grey, it curls and slips between the blades of grass, a fleeting breath that kisses dawn’s first light.

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