Poetry

Glenavon

Glenavon In the hush of twilight over Glenavon’s vale, Where mist entwines with heather’s purple flare, The river sighs a soft, enduring tale, Reflecting sky’s pale, ever‑changing air. Old stone walls stand like

Slush

In the hush of dawn the city wakes, A thin veil of slush upon the grey‑kissed streets, Where lorry tyres sigh and pavements gleam, Each step a soft, reluctant splash beneath weary feet.

Truro City

In the heart of Cornwall, where mist rolls soft and low, Stands Truro City, a quiet jewel aglow. Its cathedral spire pierces the slate‑grey sky, A stone‑kissed sentinel watching time drift by.

Purse

A purse of leather, soft and brown, Holds secrets in its quiet fold— Coins that jingle, notes that frown, A lipstick scarlet, brave and bold. It swings beside a bustling street, A faithful

Inverness Caledonian Thistle

Highland hearts beat in Caley’s green and gold, Where Ness’s mist curls round the stadium’s hold. From Pittodrie’s echo to Caledonian pride, The Thistle spreads its wings, with passion as its guide.

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