Poetry

Weave

In the quiet workshop where the loom stands still, a weaver's hands begin to dance and spin, pulling warp and weft through timbered grain, each thread a hue of earth or sky's own

Stand

Stand In the quiet hush of dawn, a lone oak stands, its gnarled limbs outstretched like old friends greeting the light, leaves whispering secrets to the wind that drifts over the meadow.

Toady

Ode to a Toady In the tea‑room’s hushed politeness, He slides in with a obsequious grin, A fawning shadow of the boss, His honour measured in biscuits thin. He ladles praise like thickened

Newcastle United

The Magpies’ Cry At St James’ Park the night turns black and white, Where Geordie hearts beat loud beneath the flood, Each chant a hymn, each tackle fierce and tight, A city’s pride that

Belle

The Belle of Belgravia In fog‑kissed mornings when the Thames does sigh, She walks the pavement, light as whispered lace, A belle whose smile could coax the greyest sky To blush a

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