Poetry

Gloss

Gloss Upon the oak‑paneled study, a varnish gleams— a quiet gloss that catches the lamplight’s soft beams, turning grain to a river of amber, smooth and deep, as if the wood itself had learned

Heart of Midlothian

Heart of Midlothian Where maroon and white flush Tynecastle's stone, A roar erupts, a deep, primordial tone – Not just the clash of boot on sacred sod, But generations' pulse, a living god. The sunset

Women

Women In quiet corners of a bustling city, She walks—her steps a rhythm of resolve, A tapestry woven from courage and compassion, Each thread a story, each hue a hope. She laughs like

On Waking in a Dudley Travelodge

Not London’s fog, not Brighton’s brine, Just Dudley’s grey, 6 a.m. line: The Travelodge sighs, a beige-hued shell Where weary travellers learn to dwell. No castle spire, no canal’s gleam, Just lino cold

Drunk

In the dim‑lit pub, the amber glow clings to the worn‑in oak, where laughter rolls like a barrel’s roll and every voice is hoarse. A pint of bitter, frothy‑topped, slips down the throat,

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