Poetry

Shack

In the corner of the field, a lone shack stands, Its timber weathered by rain and wind, A modest refuge where quiet hands Find shelter from the world’s unrest. Inside, the scent

Nottingham Forest

In the heart of Trent’s quiet flow, Where ancient oaks stand proud and low, Reds and whites entwine like vines, A forest born of triumph’s signs. From Brian’s fire to European glow, The

Peeve

The Queue‑Jumpers’ Lament On the tube at rush hour, I stand in line, A patient Brit, awaiting my turn, When a sudden surge of elbow‑sharp design Splits the calm like a faulty siren’s churn.

Carlisle United

At Brunton Park the Cumbrian sky turns blue, Where Carlisle United chase their dreams anew. Red‑and‑white stripes flash across the emerald pitch, A heartbeat loud, a chorus rich. From the terraces the

Usury

In shadowed alleys where the gaslight flickers, A usurer sits with ledger bound in leather, His eyes like flint, his voice a low whisper, That turns each earnest plea into cold tether.

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