Poetry

Booth

In the rain‑slicked corner of the high street, A red telephone booth stands, stoic and neat, Its glass panes misted with breath of the past, Where whispers of love and farewells have lasted.

Dundela

Dundela where the terraced rows breathe a quiet pride, red‑brick facades lining avenues that hum with the soft clatter of tram‑wheels on rain‑slicked cobbles. Here the echo of children’s laughter spills from schoolyard

Legal

In quiet chambers where the gavel sighs, The law unfolds—its words a measured tide, Each clause a thread in justice’ woven ties, Where truth and reason stand side by side. From barrister’s

Hibernian

Hibernian Dawn In mist‑cloaked glens where shamrocks sway, The emerald hills recall the day When Celtic hymns rose soft and low, A hymn of stone and heather’s glow. From Galway’s rugged, rain‑kissed coast To Dublin’s streets

Butte

Upon the rolling heath, a lone butte lifts, Its tabletop a steadfast stage, Against the drifting clouds it drifts, A quiet monument of age. The winds that sweep the surrounding plain Whisper tales

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