Poetry

Envoy

Envoy In quiet halls of stone and brass, An envoy walks with measured tread, A messenger whose whispered grass Carries the weight of words unsaid. From Westminster’s austere lobby To distant courts where monsoons

Stirling Albion

Stirling Albion Och, the Binos take the field at Annfield’s humble ground, Where black and white hoops flash like the Wallace Monument’s stone, A chorus of scarf‑wrapped voices rises from the town, Echoing over

Sandy

Sandy Not golden, not quite brown, but soft and grand, A thousand tiny stones slipped through your hand. It clings to toes, a persistent, gritty trace, Found where the sea kissed the sun-warmed space.

Singe

Singe A flicker kisses the frayed hem, A breath of flame that dares not blaze— Just enough to singe the linen’s seam, Leaving amber traces in a haze. It is the

Sober

Sober In the hush of early dawn, when the pub’s last glasses clink, I walk the cobbled lane, my thoughts as clear as winter ink. No amber haze to blur the edge of

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