Poetry

Aldershot Town

Aldershot Town, where history marches on, From barracks’ brick to the hum of the town, Stone‑cobbled memories of soldiers’ stride, Echoes of bugles where pride won’t subside. The heath lies quiet beneath

Pizza

Ode to a Slice In a humble kitchen, dough is rolled, A golden disc, both thin and bold, It waits beneath the oven’s glow, Where bubbles form and aromas flow. Tomato

Baton

In the hush before the stadium’s roar, a slender baton waits, polished steel, its tip catching the afternoon light like a promise passed between eager palms. Relay runners clutch it tight, feet pounding

Woking

In the leafy shires of Surrey lies a town called Woking, Where the River Wey still winds and the railway winds beside. Victorian brick and modern glass sit side by side in

Rangers

On mist‑clad hills where heather sighs, The Rangers tread with steady eyes, Their boots imprint the ancient peat, A silent watch where wild things meet. Through tangled glen and pine‑clad scar, They guard

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