Poetry

Elegy

In quiet chambers where the echoes dwell, We lay our grief upon the stone of time, Each line a flower, soft as twilight's spell, A whispered hymn to those who climb no more.

Partick Thistle

At Firhill where the Clyde winds slow, The Jags in red and yellow glow. A city’s heartbeat, Glasgow’s pride, Where every match is lived beside. From the terraces’ eager chant, To the whistle’s

Copse

In the hush of a quiet copse, Where hazel and oak intertwine, Sunlight filters through leafy lace, Casting dappled gold on the mossy floor. A blackbird’s song threads the still air, While shy

Lincoln City

Lincoln City – a quiet jewel on the Witham’s sigh, Where cobbled lanes remember Roman tread, And the cathedral’s spire pierces the grey sky, A steadfast beacon where the past is fed.

Messy

Messy, like paint spilled across a bright kitchen floor, a tangle of thoughts where ideas scatter and roar. Crumpled pages whisper, socks roam in lone pairs, while tea‑stained mugs linger on sun‑warmed chairs.

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives