Poetry

Motif

In quiet rooms where shadows softly play, A motif drifts like scent of old parchment— A whispered thread that weaves through night and day, Binding the chorus of a heart’s lament. It

Yeovil Town

Yeovil Town’s green and white, In Somerset’s quiet light, They march across the pitch, With grit that stitches every stitch. From Huish Park’s humble stands, The roar of loyal fans, A chorus old yet

Reply

When a whisper finds its voice, the air leans in to hear the reply, soft as rain on cobbled stones, yet firm as steel in a quiet sky. Each syllable a bridge,

Connah's Quay Nomads

In the heart of Flintshire’s quiet grace, Where the Dee’s soft tide meets ancient stone, Stands Connah’s Quay Nomads, a modest place, Where every match feels like coming home. Their crest bears

Penal

In the grey hush of stone‑cold wings, where iron bars hum a low, relentless chant, the penal air clings to breath like soot, each sigh a tally of time’s ledger. Footsteps echo

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