Poetry

Crude

Crude In the black tide of North Sea rigs, crude oil sighs beneath the sky, a viscous whisper of ancient seas, where steel and salt in labour lie. It flows through

Emcee

On the stage of the old theatre’s marquee, the emcee steps forward, microphone in hand, a grin as bright as the footlights’ gleam, ready to weave the night’s commandeered plan. With a

Southampton

Southampton, where the Solent sighs, A harbour town of steel and tide. From ancient Bargate’s stone‑crowned walls To modern quays where liners glide. The Old Town whispers cobbled tales, Of Pilgrim Fathers, wartime

Alloa Athletic

At Recreation Park the orange and black unfold, A swarm of Wasps that hum beneath the Clyde’s soft sigh. The terraces echo with loyal, hearty bold, Where every chant is woven from the

Scoop

Scoop In the kitchen’s hush, a silver spoon glides through vanilla clouds, a sweet, cool scoop— each mound a tiny sunrise, soft and bright, melting on the tongue like morning light. Down the bustling street,

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