Poetry

Portadown

Portadown – where the Bann sighs beneath old stone bridges, its waters whispering tales of linen looms and soot‑streaked mills, the clang of the railway a steady heartbeat beside the towpath, where lorries

Demur

Demur In the quiet hush of a courthouse stair, She lifts her gaze, a breath held tight, A murmur rises — soft, demure — A pause that crowns the weight of right. The judge’s

The New Saints

The New Saints In quiet streets where lanterns gleam, They walk not in robe nor haloed dream, But in the stead of work‑worn hands, A cup of tea, a lent a hand. They

Puppy

In the garden’s morning glow, A fluffy pup with ears aglow, His paws patter on the dew‑kissed grass, A tiny heart that beats amuse. He chases squirrels, his tail a flag, Sniffs out

Manchester City

Sky‑blue dreams in Etihad’s glow, Manchester City, where passions flow. From Moss Side streets to Premier League’s roar, Each chant a tide, each goal a lore. Silk‑smooth dribbles, a pianist’s touch, De Bruyne’s vision,

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