Poetry
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
Read more →Drunk
In the dim‑lit pub, the amber glow clings to the worn‑in oak, where laughter rolls like a barrel’s roll and every voice is hoarse. A pint of bitter, frothy‑topped, slips down the throat,
Read more →On Sleeping in a Dudley Travelodge
On Sleeping in a Dudley Travelodge In Dudley’s modest, brick‑clad lane, A Travelodge waits for night‑time rain, Its sign a steady amber glow Beside the car‑park’s orderly row. I check‑in with a courteous
Read more →Tweet
A single tweet can split the hush of dawn, A thin, bright note that stitches sky to earth— A feathered herald, perched upon the thorn, Whose voice, though small, can shake the morning’s
Read more →Snore
The Night‑time Serenade In the hush of midnight’s soft embrace, A low, rumbling timbre starts to trace, Like distant thunder on a summer’s night, A snore that paints the dark with gentle
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