Poetry

Geode

In quiet hills where time has slept, A stone lies closed, a secret kept. Its rough exterior, grey and cold, Holds a heart of crystal, bright and bold. When split apart, the

Altrincham

Altrincham’s quiet lanes recall A market town where histories entwine, Old brick facades in gentle pastel call, And weekend stalls display their wares divine. The trams glide soft along the line, Their humming

Crash

In the hush before night’s soft sigh, A sudden crash—metal kisses the rain‑slicked lane— Shards scatter like startled starlings, Glittering fragments of hurried haste. The engine’s roar stutters, a gasp, Then silence drapes

Briton Ferry Llansawel

Briton Ferry Llansawel By the winding Neath, where water sighs, Old stone bridges guard the quiet tide, Rows of terraced houses wear the skies Of slate‑grey clouds that softly glide. The

Wimpy

He walks the street with shoulders curled, A timid soul in a world that whirls, His voice a whisper, soft and low, Like summer rain on pavements slow. He shies from conflict,

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