Poetry

Wharf

On the wharf where tides sigh low, Old timbers whisper as they go, Barnacled posts stand firm and bare, Guardians of the salty air. Moorings creak in steady rhythm, Ropes like serpents, limp

Your Spatula

Your spatula, a humble hero, A sleek, silver‑tongued companion in the pan, Flipping pancakes with a gentle flick, Turning golden biscuits till they’re golden‑tan. In the sizzle of a Sunday fry‑up, It slides

Mafia

Espresso dark, the morning air lay thick Beyond the narrow alleys of Palermo's heart, Where silk-suited men moved swift and slick, Their laughter sharp as stilettos, playing their part. No flashing neon, just a

Blackpool

Blackpool’s promenade sighs beneath a gull‑kissed sky, Where the Tower stands like a steadfast lighthouse, Its iron bones humming with the low‑drone of tram wheels, Whilst holidaymakers wander, sticky‑fingered, Towards the scent of salt

Burton Albion

On the banks of the Trent where the crowds gather, Burton Albion’s Brewers march on with pride, Their amber and black stripes fluttering like a banner Over the Pirelli Stadium, where hopes reside.

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