Poetry

Spartans

In the rugged hills of Laconia they stood, Spartan sons of iron will and stone‑clad pride, Their crimson cloaks a flare against the pale, A shield of bronze, a spear that would not

Morph

Morph In quiet streets where cobblestones recall the steps of centuries, a shadow bends, it shifts like mist that drifts across the wall, and wears the faces that the moment lends. A seed uncurls to

Portsmouth

By the ancient walls of Portsmouth’s historic harbour, Where the Spinnaker Tower pierces a grey‑blue sky, The scent of salty tide mingles with gun‑smoke memory, And HMS Victory rests, a steadfast sentinel of the

Shrewsbury Town

Shrewsbury Town, the Salop side, Where green and amber banners glide. On Montgomery Waters Meadow’s grass, Dreams of glory come to pass. From Gay Meadow’s historic roar To New Meadow’s modern shore, The Shrews

Nobly

Nobly the dawn spreads its quiet gold, A steady hand that bears the weight of honour. In every stride, a silent promise kept— To serve, to stand, to lift the weary heart.

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