Poetry

Stout

In the dim glow of the tavern’s fire, A stout sits dark as midnight’s mire, Its head a creamy, soft attire, Whispering of roasted barley’s choir. Each sip a warm, robust surprise, A

Tottenham Hotspur

In the North London light where the lilac sky meets the Thames, Spurs stride on hallowed turf, a chorus of claret and blue. Lilywhite jerseys flutter like banners over White Hart Lane, Echoes

Clack

Clack‑clack on cobbles, the lady’s heels sing, A rhythm that taps the old market’s ring. Each step a punctuation, a terse, bright beat, Echoing off shutters where neighbours meet. In the hush of the

Taking Cocaine with Wendy Cope

In a dim‑lit flat where rain taps soft against the pane, I find myself beside Wendy Cope, verses scattered like loose change, Her laughter a quiet chime, the kettle’s sigh a steady

Avian

Avian verses rise with sunrise, Feathered silhouettes sketched across the sky, Each wingbeat a whisper of ancient wind, Plumage polished like jade in morning light. From the robin’s ruby breast to the swan’s pure

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