Poetry

Bangor

Bangor On the banks where the Dee meets the tide, Old Bangor stands with a quiet pride. Stone‑cobbled streets and slate‑roofed rows, Whisper tales that the river knows. From the pier,

Murky

Murky In the twilight of the marsh, where reeds whisper secrets thick, the water lies a shrouded grey, a mirror to the overcast sky. Shadows drift beneath the surface, swirling silt like ghostly thoughts, each ripple a

Dunfermline Athletic

East End Park on a Saturday grey, Where the Pars prepare for another day. Scarves of black and white held high and tight, Underneath the floodlights' golden light. From Leishman's grace to

Grill

The grill begins its low, contented hum, Awaiting reign of flame and glowing coal. It’s not just metal, but a summer’s drum, Calling forth the feast that makes us whole. Sausages leap, a cheerful,

Bournemouth

Bournemouth’s seafront glistens in the amber glow, Where golden sands meet the restless, sapphire tide. The pier stretches out, a wooden promenade, Echoing laughter of children who slide and glide. Victorian villas

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