Poetry

Crock

The Crock In the kitchen’s quiet corner stands a crock— A sturdy earthen jar, its surface speckled brown, Its glaze a humble, earthy hue, a modest stock That has held the seasons’ bounty, turned

Rural

I pull my wellies on, the morning air so cool, Damp earth and hawthorn blossom, nature’s quiet rule. Beyond the garden gate, where stile meets winding lane, Patchwork fields unfold again – a

Quack

Quack In the pond’s hushed lilac hush, a feathered friend breaks the hush with a quack— a short, bright note that ripples the water, splitting the still‑blue like a silver crack. The mallard

Kilmarnock

Kilmarnock In Kilmarnock's heart the weekday ends, The clock strikes five, the workday bends, Neighbours gather, voices blend, As Friday's light the street extends. Here Johnnie Walker's amber streams, Slide gentle as the Irvine's

Eerie

The Moor’s Whisper Not wind, but something older stirs the bracken low, Where mist clings like grave-cloth to the stones. A gate swings slow on rusted hinges— No hand has touched it since the

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