Poetry

Truro City

In the heart of Cornwall, where mist rolls soft and low, Stands Truro City, a quiet jewel aglow. Its cathedral spire pierces the slate‑grey sky, A stone‑kissed sentinel watching time drift by.

Purse

A purse of leather, soft and brown, Holds secrets in its quiet fold— Coins that jingle, notes that frown, A lipstick scarlet, brave and bold. It swings beside a bustling street, A faithful

Inverness Caledonian Thistle

Highland hearts beat in Caley’s green and gold, Where Ness’s mist curls round the stadium’s hold. From Pittodrie’s echo to Caledonian pride, The Thistle spreads its wings, with passion as its guide.

Flume

At the holiday funfair the flume gleams, a silver chute twisting through sun‑lit mist, queues of laughter snake like river reeds, while water rushes, bright and bold, beneath. Riders plunge, hearts splash

Larne

Larne’s harbour sighs beneath a slate‑grey sky, Where fishing boats return with silvered tide, Their nets a‑glint like thoughts that wander by Along the wind‑kissed cliffs where gulls have cried. The railway

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