Poetry

Olden

In the olden days when mist would cling to laneways, Cobblestones whispered tales of knights and dames, Their voices low, like hymns in ancient prayer, A world where time was measured by the

Reading

In quiet corners, where the lamp glows low, I turn each leaf, and worlds begin to flow. The rustle of paper, a soft, familiar sigh, Carries me past the limits of time and

Prawn

Ode to the Prawn In silken shells of blushing pink, They drift where tide and current meet, A quiet ballet 'neath the sea‑foam brink, Where sunlight twirls in liquid sheet. Their antennae flick

Trace

In quiet lanes where footsteps fade, A trace remains, a whispered shade— A scent of rain on cobblestones, A fleeting mark where light has shone. It lives in ink that stains the

Bangor

Bangor On the banks where the Dee meets the tide, Old Bangor stands with a quiet pride. Stone‑cobbled streets and slate‑roofed rows, Whisper tales that the river knows. From the pier,

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