Poetry

Kilmarnock

Kilmarnock In Kilmarnock's heart the weekday ends, The clock strikes five, the workday bends, Neighbours gather, voices blend, As Friday's light the street extends. Here Johnnie Walker's amber streams, Slide gentle as the Irvine's

Eerie

The Moor’s Whisper Not wind, but something older stirs the bracken low, Where mist clings like grave-cloth to the stones. A gate swings slow on rusted hinges— No hand has touched it since the

Gloss

Gloss Upon the oak‑paneled study, a varnish gleams— a quiet gloss that catches the lamplight’s soft beams, turning grain to a river of amber, smooth and deep, as if the wood itself had learned

Heart of Midlothian

Heart of Midlothian Where maroon and white flush Tynecastle's stone, A roar erupts, a deep, primordial tone – Not just the clash of boot on sacred sod, But generations' pulse, a living god. The sunset

Women

Women In quiet corners of a bustling city, She walks—her steps a rhythm of resolve, A tapestry woven from courage and compassion, Each thread a story, each hue a hope. She laughs like

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