Poetry

Capon

In farmyard chorus, loud and shrill, The capon holds a different skill: No cock-a-doodle breaks his rest, He’s plump and soft, supremely blessed. No strutting spur, no fierce reply, Just gentle pecking, low and shy. While

Stoke City

At the banks where Trent’s slow waters wind, The red and white of Stoke endure, From Burslem’s kilns to modern wind, Where faithful hearts remain secure. The Potters rise on winter’s chill, Their

Click

A gentle tap upon the screen, A soft, familiar sound, Each click a tiny universe unseen, Where thoughts and dreams are bound. In quiet rooms or bustling streets, It punctuates our day— A punctuation

Northampton Town

Northampton Town, where cobblestones recall the clang of tram‑bells and the hiss of steam, a market square where bustling voices call over stalls of cheese, fresh bread and cream. The River Nene

Runny

Runny yolk slides slow across the plate, A golden river on a Sunday brunch. Runny nose sniffles in the damp December air, While scarves are wrapped to keep the chill at bay. Runny Brie,

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