Poetry

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

On Waking in a Dudley Travelodge

Not London’s fog, not Brighton’s brine, Just Dudley’s grey, 6 a.m. line: The Travelodge sighs, a beige-hued shell Where weary travellers learn to dwell. No castle spire, no canal’s gleam, Just lino cold

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