Poetry

Loose

Loose In the attic trunk a moth‑eaten scarf, its wool unfurled like sighs of autumn air, a gentle tug and the threads go loose, drifting free from seams that held them tight. Down

Geode

In quiet hills where time has slept, A stone lies closed, a secret kept. Its rough exterior, grey and cold, Holds a heart of crystal, bright and bold. When split apart, the

Altrincham

Altrincham’s quiet lanes recall A market town where histories entwine, Old brick facades in gentle pastel call, And weekend stalls display their wares divine. The trams glide soft along the line, Their humming

Crash

In the hush before night’s soft sigh, A sudden crash—metal kisses the rain‑slicked lane— Shards scatter like startled starlings, Glittering fragments of hurried haste. The engine’s roar stutters, a gasp, Then silence drapes

Briton Ferry Llansawel

Briton Ferry Llansawel By the winding Neath, where water sighs, Old stone bridges guard the quiet tide, Rows of terraced houses wear the skies Of slate‑grey clouds that softly glide. The

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