Poetry

Nifty

Nifty, a word that flits like a kite, In breezy markets and sunny delight. It tugs at the grin of a clever chap's smile, Turning the ordinary into something worthwhile. From gadgets

Coventry City

Ricoh Arena under a November sky, Concrete terraces, damp and grey, Scarves pulled tight as clouds drift low, Waiting for the Sky Blue way. The whistle blows, a familiar sound, Echoes of '87 in the

Aster

In the garden’s quiet corner, where dew clings to each leaf, The aster stands, a modest star, its petals soft and brief. Shades of lilac, blush of pink, a violet‑tinged hue, They open

Solihull Moors

On the edge of Birmingham’s gentle sprawl, Where Solihull’s streets meet open air, Damson Park stands proud, a modest hall Where hopes are kicked and dreams laid bare. The Moors in amber,

Dryly

Dryly In a quiet corner of the kitchen, the toast sits, its crust a brittle sigh, butter long since melted, leaving only a faint, dryly whispered scent of wheat. He smiles dryly, a

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