​The copyright in all of these works rests with their authors

2022 Winner

LILY WHITELOCK, Berkshire

Sweet Solstice

 
We all had sticky feet that summer,
Grass stained bums and sandy hands.
 
Then someone put burrs in Hector’s hair,
and for the second time that day
the dawn chorus started again.
 
He sat in my lap throwing rowan berries to the seagulls
as I combed the seeds from his salty locks.
The birds seemed to like the berries,
Bright and round like umber pearls.
Granny always said Mountain Ash were good fortune.
 
Some time later,
as the little ones soared high on the sugar of seaside nectar,
I lay in the sun with the youngest chick
too small yet to coast and fly with the rest of the charm.
 
Small ears buzzing with the wonder of this new world.
 
I popped a fuschia for him,
Wrapped like a rosy pink sweet in his tiny fist
And he held it gentle as a honeybee,
watching its coloured skirt dancing in the breeze.
 
The cousins came up from the croft,
stained with scarlett strawberries
and doused in the scent of the coastal lavenders.
We hummed as we sat and hulled our fresh fife harvest
 
That was the summer of gold and crimson sunsets
that filled the sky with the colours of our hope.

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Special Mention

DOMINI ALDRIDGE, Somerset

There Is Hope Yet

Untangled, the line runs, linear thread
Between fingers. Glue applied (mechanically)
to the blue twist: it gets stuck to others on mottled green sheet.
 
Reach for bottled water (casually), follow it
Splashing fresh into ceramic cup
Dip tip of new dainty brush- like a bird
Stooping for a sip- and swirl blue through the shallow deep.
 
Smile.
 
Acknowledge remnants of discarded ambitions-
Portraits, landmarks, skylines, power plants-
Drowned and dissolved
In the sink
Churning rusty red and tarry grey, foaming faintly away
Down that gurgling hole.
Return to the scape, and the river in paint,
Now just skirting the rocks, trailing leisurely to the horizon-
And remove those crushed cans, boxes
And shattered bottles, clogging
The doorway to the garden.
 
Thrust the window open
Let the breeze lift the air from potent paint pots
Lingering there, trying to close life into
That little plastic well.
Look to the tree, just budding,
Or the brook babbling, or the sea bubbling-
Look to the pendant snowdrops
Lulling in infant sleep, nodding
As you add their tiny pearly hats to the scene
And breathe one sigh of relief.

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Special Mention

ELENI BARRETT, Greater London

Walking The Dog In Italy

The cerulean ocean lies still,
Tranquil under the dusky watercolour sky,
And low-lying grey clouds,
The sight is almost sorrowful...but peaceful,
It’s beauty is somewhat melancholy,
For the scene is the same colour as sadness.
 
I breathe in the salty air,
The taste lingers in my throat,
As I walk along the white sand where pawprints were once,
Shades of fire begin to creep into the sky,
And the sun becomes submerged in the ocean,
Which is now a fiery orange.
 
The lights of the market shimmer in the darkness,
It’s dark but warm,
And I let the slate grey waves lap at my toes,
Just like I do every time I go here.
 
The beach is quiet today, it’s a cold October evening,
But I like quiet, it helps me feel calm,
More mindful,
I wouldn’t notice the birds soaring high above my head on a July afternoon,
Or the wind that carries the sand calmly to the other side of the beach,
Whispering with the gentle toss of the waves,
Empty but still alive.

---

Highly Commended

FREYA de la BÉDOYÈRE
St Dunstan's School, Glastonbury, Somerset

Hope of Nature

The morning dew, it rests so gently
Upon its carpet of vivid green
Dappled by the wispy clouds
Like a dove’s feather
Spun from the thread of a thousand dreams.
 
Palm trees, so grand and mighty
Performing their colossal dance
Swaying and bending
Caressing the sunset sky
Luring anyone around into a dazzling trance.
 
The crimson, it lines the edges of the sky
With the beauty of the world all over again
Life leads to death
The cycle of change
The marks we forge in our time will forever remain.
 
The frost brimming each sharp holly leaf
Balancing on its evergreen tightrope
Each individual crystal,
A blade in the wind
It pierces the soul like a knife-edged needle of hope.

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Highly Commended

AURORA BLUE, Cheshire

In Winter Rains

                                    In wintry winter rains
                        metaphorical ionic bonds              
                                    of a snowdrop
                        spin into an invisibled sea of
                                    delocalised freed electrons
                                    in chemical synthesis;
                       
 
          once full-grown their forms remind me of
                      older women bent with solemnities,
          clasping in their little emerald fists
          their bulbous tepal lanterns
                     of three purest white petals;
 
                     before they were our guides
          into the snowdrop’s realm,
we roamed around
tall alleyways
          of frosted-green spears
                       of newly-gotten shoots ~
lost;
                       these alone are the survivors of
          devilish-black frosts,
which urge our eyes
 
 
                      to keep their promise
         of reawakening
again and once again

---

Highly Commended

LUU KHANG VINH, Vietnam

Seeing These Woods

I see in the littlest leaf

rivers of veins veiled beneath
where green blood flows
to guide it as it grows
and I wonder, little leaf,
if what we have beneath,
our proud and vibrant red
is as pure as what you bled.
 
Is the sap of the newborn tree
equivalent to what sits in me?
Am I as beautiful, in my skin,
as this bark and what rests within?
 
I ponder these things
as I walk these weird old woods
wandering to walkways
and pondering for days
on all the things I should be
if these are anything like me.
 
Is the cute curl of a baby vine
much like the hair you might find
upon a newborn’s little head?
What does it mean that we bleed red?
 
I wonder so many silly things
within the wilds to which I bring
these thoughts no one else might hear,
yet ever grateful for the grasses near,
for the flowers that bloom beyond,
for the critters sitting by the pond.
For all things out there might be like me.
I hope I’m as great as the world I see.

---

Highly Commended

MADELINE PHELPS, Australia

Silent Bells

The moon found the flowers that opened at dusk
A thousand fairies in the night
Moonlight spilling off their wings 
As they sway together in soft wind
A gentle waltz watched by stars 
 
They pop up from the frosted earth
And keep the cold around a little longer
I like to think they hold you too
And invite you to listen to the birds
You loved but could never name
 
They look down at the earth fondly
Instead of reaching for an empty sky
I hope you’re looking back at them
A thousand silent bells with a beautiful song
Watching as the Earth begins to soften
 
Fields of snow that will not melt
You gave them a home in that forest
Helped them to grow where they should have died
Now they grow over everything that was there before
A blanket you laid for the woods to spread
 
They’ll stay for just a little while
Then slowly wilt and fall
But they’ll come again after the next freeze
More of them arriving to watch and dance
A memory that grows with time 
 
When the ground begins to breathe again
And the white field is painted with every colour
I hope you stay around or come again
When they bend down and call you
From your bed of Earth

---

Highly Commended

ALFIE COOK
St Dunstan's School, Glastonbury, Somerset

The Robin's Calling

This year has been brilliant in some ways
But also quite depressing,
For all those souls
Who tunnel holes
Hoping their sadness will lessen.
 
Everyone walking in the woods
Watching the owls twit-twoo,
And the robins and sparrows
Darting like arrows
And saying to them, “I can’t make a new start; how can you?”
 
One of the people who did this
Was a young chap called Billy O’Bryce,
Pulling up his sock
He had a great shock
When the robin said, “To be spoken to for once is nice.”
 
Cried Billy, “You can talk! How interesting,
But what is the answer to my question?”
The robin was wise,
Said she, “Your courage dies
When you do not care if it lessens.”
 
“Excuse me, what do you mean?”
Still unsure, Billy said,
Replied the robin, “Believe
That for as long as you live
You really will be okay, I promise, let that sink into your head.”
 
Billy said, “I see what you mean,
Now I’m off to bed.”
I hope this goes
To all of us
As words of good hope and strength in the head.

---

Highly Commended

JACINTA-MARIA WAJERO, Liverpool

The Tree of Life

Life is a height on a tall tree
In a jungle decorated with winter
And I am drifting like a snowflake 
Gracefully silent
 
Why do we listen to silence?
There is nothing left to hear. Peace
Has departed with a quarter of the forest
And the scent of fresh sawdust lingers
 
The river runs, away from me
Under its frozen mirror
When I stare deeply, who do I see?
A killer or cultivator diving into my eyes
 
Why are we chopping life?
The air is stained with thick darkness
More immense and malevolent than nightfall
Less reliable than sunrise and her happiness
 
Yet with the power of the wind
I float softly downwards
And I see beneath the death of frost
Concealed desperately by industrious
Humanity. A green
More valuable than exploited money
Rustling, racing to the surface
From the depths of ancient soil
 
A new army.
Shoots.
With arrows to pierce the silence
With bullets to be heard
Louder than the rolling thunderstorm.

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Highly Commended

ROSIE IBBERSON, Derbyshire

The World In Focus

Curl your soul up in the grass, just for a moment
And listen to the wind sing you to sleep.
Hear the gentle sun call out, “Are you okay?”
 
The world is loud sometimes. And heavy.
Let your feet take a rest and lay down in the middle of the cottongrass.
Flutter your eyes closed, for a minute just breathe.
 
What is life if you always keep running?
One day you’ll reach the end and realise you never saw the sky.
You moved so far so fast you didn’t see the ground under your feet,
Or the tree over your head to protect you from the heat.
 
Catch a firefly in your palms and look at yourself hold a star.
How empty to think you live alone when your days are spent
Listening to the grasshoppers call for company.
How tiring to ignore the cry of the birds that wake you
Each morning to tell you the sun has come again.
 
This world is full of hearts that beat in time with yours
And flowers that bloom so rarely, like your smiles.
But the world looks prettier in colour, don’t you think?
I think it’d be lovely if all the flowers bloomed more.