Poetry

Alibi

An alibi spun like a silk‑threaded lie, Whispered beneath the neon of a London sky, Where the rain‑slick pavement mirrors a suspect’s grin, And the clock on Big Ben ticks the truth within.

Drake

In the neon hush of Toronto’s night, Drake walks the streets like a modern‑day bard, His verses a mixture of soft‑spoken sighs And bass‑heavy thumps that shake the underground. He sips tea,

Watford

Watford hums beneath a pallid sky, Where Colne's soft waters kiss the town's old feet, The high street thrives with shops where passersby Exchange a smile, a cup of tea, a treat. Red brick

Greenock Morton

At Cappielow’s green‑kissed banks they gather, The Ton in hoops of scarlet and white, Their chants rise like river mist over the Clyde, A steady pulse that beats through rain‑slick night. From

Penybont

In the quiet vale where Penybont sleeps, A bridge of stone arches over murmuring streams, Its name—head of the bridge—whispers old tales, Of shepherds’ footsteps and ancient dreams. The hills roll soft,

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