Poetry

Reply

When a whisper finds its voice, the air leans in to hear the reply, soft as rain on cobbled stones, yet firm as steel in a quiet sky. Each syllable a bridge,

Connah's Quay Nomads

In the heart of Flintshire’s quiet grace, Where the Dee’s soft tide meets ancient stone, Stands Connah’s Quay Nomads, a modest place, Where every match feels like coming home. Their crest bears

Penal

In the grey hush of stone‑cold wings, where iron bars hum a low, relentless chant, the penal air clings to breath like soot, each sigh a tally of time’s ledger. Footsteps echo

Glenavon

Glenavon In the hush of twilight over Glenavon’s vale, Where mist entwines with heather’s purple flare, The river sighs a soft, enduring tale, Reflecting sky’s pale, ever‑changing air. Old stone walls stand like

Slush

In the hush of dawn the city wakes, A thin veil of slush upon the grey‑kissed streets, Where lorry tyres sigh and pavements gleam, Each step a soft, reluctant splash beneath weary feet.

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