Poetry

Tribe

We gather round the fire’s warm glow, A circle where the old tales flow— Each voice a thread in woven cloth, A tribe that beats with single oath. From mountain mist to

Cheltenham Town

Cheltenham Town – the Robins’ scarlet wing, A modest ground where hopes take flight. Whittington’s green, the roar that sings Of passing boots and earnest fight. From the terraces the chants arise, A chorus of

Aspic

In copper pots the broth does sigh, A shimmering veil of aspic lies, Its jelly holds the rosemary’s sigh, And carrots wink beneath its chilling guise. With tender morsels of game or fish, Each slice

West Ham United

At the Boleyn Ground the claret and blue Wave like a tide over Thames’ east view, The Hammers stride forth with a chant loud and clear, “I’m forever blowing bubbles,” the fans all

Loose

Loose In the attic trunk a moth‑eaten scarf, its wool unfurled like sighs of autumn air, a gentle tug and the threads go loose, drifting free from seams that held them tight. Down

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives