Poetry

Exeter City

Exeter City, pride of the Devon hills, In crimson and white they chase the thrill. St James’ Park echoes with loyal song, Where Grecians march, both brave and strong. From the Exe’s gentle flow to

I Swear

I swear upon the quiet tide, To keep my promises, true and wide. In every breath I take, I’ll stand, With honest heart and steadfast hand. No shadow of deceit shall mar The word I

Stenhousemuir

Stenhousemuir In the gentle curve of the Forth’s own sigh, Stenhousemuir cradles its modest streets, Where terraced cottages lean against the sky, And the river whispers soft, historic beats. The old mill’s rusted

Amend

Amend In quiet rooms where ink still bleeds, We trace the seams of thought and deed, A gentle hand, a measured sway, To soften edges, set aright. The draft, a garden, wild and bright, Needs pruning

Arsenal

At the Emirates, beneath a sky of North London grey, The Gunners stride, their hearts a steady, claret‑blue beat. A chorus rises from the terraces, a faithful, fervent fray, Where every pass recalls

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