The copyright in all of these works rests with their authors
2022 Winner
KATHY MILES, Ceredigion
First Snowdrop
A new-born's eyes might open like this, stitching
themselves to the light, a surprise of wind
on petals delicate as pupils. Learning to root
in sun, close for dark, to winch their lantern heads
through the long slow haul of hail and bitter rain.
I planted them on my mother's grave, a clench
of dormant buds. All summer they lay beneath
the earth, breathed in her perfumed bones.
Now I draw up snowdrops from myself, to flourish
in the cold months. They live inside my skin,
a quiet annunciation. See how they spring
in my footsteps, how they shroud the world
in white. I reach out, touch their stems, feel
the beat of her pulse in my questing fingers.
themselves to the light, a surprise of wind
on petals delicate as pupils. Learning to root
in sun, close for dark, to winch their lantern heads
through the long slow haul of hail and bitter rain.
I planted them on my mother's grave, a clench
of dormant buds. All summer they lay beneath
the earth, breathed in her perfumed bones.
Now I draw up snowdrops from myself, to flourish
in the cold months. They live inside my skin,
a quiet annunciation. See how they spring
in my footsteps, how they shroud the world
in white. I reach out, touch their stems, feel
the beat of her pulse in my questing fingers.
Special Mention
JANE BURN, County Durham
On Hawkburn Head, North Pennines, 30th December, 2021
Nothing but moor and me for miles. Sometimes it’s good to want
to be lost. Truth is, I’m as found as I ever was—at the car park above,
a sign pins me to the ground (Lydgett’s Junction, 6.6 miles / You
are here)—so I pretend a sense of mystery, pass from the sight
of the main road and I could be anyone, anything. Could stand here
forever and count all the tastes on my breath—the acres have gone
to the bottom of my lungs, echo with burrow and flight, mist and wild,
track and vole, stone and peat. I swallow these scents in deep,
try not to sigh them out. Here is a history of bloom. Bog asphodel,
melancholy thistle, false sedge—their names are alive in my mouth.
I cannot see them now but they are there, as ghosts remade beneath
the season’s resting skin. The landscape opens out in subtle rolls,
hems the wound of the distant reservoir, bleeding silver, skinned
with clouds. I walk the track—wind cuts the water into knife-blade shapes.
I didn’t realise how dull, how stale, how loose, how soft, how blunt
I had become until I came to this place. I crouch in the aisle
of an old rut and swear I can feel the soil singing to my hand, raising
crowns of common rush. There’s a faraway house, tucked in a fold
and painted white. It’s windows must shrine with evening sun, pay it back
with golden coins. It’s cold but bright—a gorgeous paradox of winter
bleak and blue sky, burnt heather and lime-green moss. On an outcrop,
wary Swaledales turn their smit marked backs. Grouse bolt from cover,
scrape the air with their riot sounds. I am not lonely, though I am alone.
Puffballs crowd their hollow eyes, blink a smoke of spores. I see one
bleached femur, swabs of fleece, glossy milkcap tongues. They tell you
to come here to gaze at the dark—I imagine the night speaking in stars,
holding its chorus of faraway light. I owe this land. This is my wayleave—
my voice. My love. The dreams I have. The care I take with my feet.
to be lost. Truth is, I’m as found as I ever was—at the car park above,
a sign pins me to the ground (Lydgett’s Junction, 6.6 miles / You
are here)—so I pretend a sense of mystery, pass from the sight
of the main road and I could be anyone, anything. Could stand here
forever and count all the tastes on my breath—the acres have gone
to the bottom of my lungs, echo with burrow and flight, mist and wild,
track and vole, stone and peat. I swallow these scents in deep,
try not to sigh them out. Here is a history of bloom. Bog asphodel,
melancholy thistle, false sedge—their names are alive in my mouth.
I cannot see them now but they are there, as ghosts remade beneath
the season’s resting skin. The landscape opens out in subtle rolls,
hems the wound of the distant reservoir, bleeding silver, skinned
with clouds. I walk the track—wind cuts the water into knife-blade shapes.
I didn’t realise how dull, how stale, how loose, how soft, how blunt
I had become until I came to this place. I crouch in the aisle
of an old rut and swear I can feel the soil singing to my hand, raising
crowns of common rush. There’s a faraway house, tucked in a fold
and painted white. It’s windows must shrine with evening sun, pay it back
with golden coins. It’s cold but bright—a gorgeous paradox of winter
bleak and blue sky, burnt heather and lime-green moss. On an outcrop,
wary Swaledales turn their smit marked backs. Grouse bolt from cover,
scrape the air with their riot sounds. I am not lonely, though I am alone.
Puffballs crowd their hollow eyes, blink a smoke of spores. I see one
bleached femur, swabs of fleece, glossy milkcap tongues. They tell you
to come here to gaze at the dark—I imagine the night speaking in stars,
holding its chorus of faraway light. I owe this land. This is my wayleave—
my voice. My love. The dreams I have. The care I take with my feet.
Special Mention
PARTRIDGE BOSWELL, USA
The Return
The loons, the loons… they’re welcoming us back!
— Katharine Hepburn
No dolphins yet…but this morning a family of five-count-them-five
loons gliding across the lake’s smooth pewter scrim close to shore.
Up till now we’d be lucky to glimpse askance: elusive loners or pairs
of reclusive stay-at-homers rare as Nessie’s ghost, slipping into dim depths
only to resurface somewhere unexpected and far, or not at all--
disappearing like Lindbergh into hidden lives below, hobnobbing with
gastropods and trout. Now, nothing surprises us anymore. Five together--
unheard of! says our naturalist friend. That’s practically an asylum!
He describes to us the water dance he’s heard of but never seen,
their gorgeous chilling cries of alarm and longing spilling from another world--
tremolos, yodels and wails amplified by water’s sonic skin, reminding me
of our own positing and posturing—days of incessant diving and seeking,
inventing distracting pastimes in lieu of action, voices rising hysterical as
the times, red-eyed and sharp-beaked, black wings flaying the water raw.
Now, we’d have to be insane not to laugh along with the tight-knit flotilla
drifting serenely past, a royal clan revealed at last to commoners lining
the bank, grown children indistinct from parents joking among themselves,
no sign of the rumored insanity that runs in the family. I can’t help wonder,
after all their solitary vanishings, what calamity wove them close in a loomery
snug as the bin of this amber caesura we find ourselves caught unawares in,
paddling happily in the presence of our resemblance as if everything
and nothing’s happening beyond the throw of our own houselight at night,
the apples beneath our branches softly sweetly weeping toward resurrection.
Now, what is is no more or less than the ripple from a distant shore’s lapping,
no matter what else is or isn’t happening as we sit and watch for a fin
to breach the lake’s pale palimpsest, and soon a whole pod of them--
reminding us not long ago this was, and will be again, a sea.
— Katharine Hepburn
No dolphins yet…but this morning a family of five-count-them-five
loons gliding across the lake’s smooth pewter scrim close to shore.
Up till now we’d be lucky to glimpse askance: elusive loners or pairs
of reclusive stay-at-homers rare as Nessie’s ghost, slipping into dim depths
only to resurface somewhere unexpected and far, or not at all--
disappearing like Lindbergh into hidden lives below, hobnobbing with
gastropods and trout. Now, nothing surprises us anymore. Five together--
unheard of! says our naturalist friend. That’s practically an asylum!
He describes to us the water dance he’s heard of but never seen,
their gorgeous chilling cries of alarm and longing spilling from another world--
tremolos, yodels and wails amplified by water’s sonic skin, reminding me
of our own positing and posturing—days of incessant diving and seeking,
inventing distracting pastimes in lieu of action, voices rising hysterical as
the times, red-eyed and sharp-beaked, black wings flaying the water raw.
Now, we’d have to be insane not to laugh along with the tight-knit flotilla
drifting serenely past, a royal clan revealed at last to commoners lining
the bank, grown children indistinct from parents joking among themselves,
no sign of the rumored insanity that runs in the family. I can’t help wonder,
after all their solitary vanishings, what calamity wove them close in a loomery
snug as the bin of this amber caesura we find ourselves caught unawares in,
paddling happily in the presence of our resemblance as if everything
and nothing’s happening beyond the throw of our own houselight at night,
the apples beneath our branches softly sweetly weeping toward resurrection.
Now, what is is no more or less than the ripple from a distant shore’s lapping,
no matter what else is or isn’t happening as we sit and watch for a fin
to breach the lake’s pale palimpsest, and soon a whole pod of them--
reminding us not long ago this was, and will be again, a sea.
Highly Commended
LIZZIE BALLAGHER, Kent
Fabrication
From the anvil of the dark,
blackbirds forge bars of light
to push up morning:
strike hot sparks.
Deep in holly flares dun thrushes
open their beaks to daylight:
conjure candle-flames
along high, shadowed walls.
Sparrows chip bright flakes
from the obdurate stone
of a low March sky: slivers
from the marbled slab of dawn.
Morning larks raise
planes of polished woods,
praise tracts of fields spread out
on floors of green below.
Unseen, a wren darts branch to twig:
holds fast to the true pulse of her song,
with deft wings lifts up planks of light--
oblique and upright—beams
for the breaking, beams
for the making of the day.
blackbirds forge bars of light
to push up morning:
strike hot sparks.
Deep in holly flares dun thrushes
open their beaks to daylight:
conjure candle-flames
along high, shadowed walls.
Sparrows chip bright flakes
from the obdurate stone
of a low March sky: slivers
from the marbled slab of dawn.
Morning larks raise
planes of polished woods,
praise tracts of fields spread out
on floors of green below.
Unseen, a wren darts branch to twig:
holds fast to the true pulse of her song,
with deft wings lifts up planks of light--
oblique and upright—beams
for the breaking, beams
for the making of the day.
Highly Commended
ALWYN MARRIAGE, Surrey
Fig Tree
Last year's knobbly miscarried fruits
still cling to the winter-bare branches.
They had their chance, could have plumped
and ripened with the others, in the sun.
They really should have been removed
in autumn, to allow strength to return
to the parent tree. But I love to see
their pert shapes, their stubborn optimism
through the depths of winter. Sometimes
our least successful efforts are worth
preserving, might even encourage the hope
that we can survive the darkest days.
still cling to the winter-bare branches.
They had their chance, could have plumped
and ripened with the others, in the sun.
They really should have been removed
in autumn, to allow strength to return
to the parent tree. But I love to see
their pert shapes, their stubborn optimism
through the depths of winter. Sometimes
our least successful efforts are worth
preserving, might even encourage the hope
that we can survive the darkest days.
Highly Commended
ELIZABETH BARTON, Surrey
Pigeons
God’s fled the city, left us with a throng
of angels we can live with.
Their wings are the grey of cloud and rock,
their song, soft murmurings of water.
They live more lightly than the rest of us –
feast on scraps, make love
on ledges, rooftops, squat in empty office blocks
but when we’ve lost all hope,
they squeeze through loose tiles, broken glass,
roost in the ruin of our hearts
and from their throats, an iridescence
shines on our dark corners.
of angels we can live with.
Their wings are the grey of cloud and rock,
their song, soft murmurings of water.
They live more lightly than the rest of us –
feast on scraps, make love
on ledges, rooftops, squat in empty office blocks
but when we’ve lost all hope,
they squeeze through loose tiles, broken glass,
roost in the ruin of our hearts
and from their throats, an iridescence
shines on our dark corners.
Highly Commended
SHIRLEY ANNE COOK, Buckinghamshire
Remembering Trees
We forget trees in war. Rooted in man's
hostile crossfire, they can't retreat.
Shellfire shocks them nude, a canvas
of blackened stumps. They can only watch
as their splintered tears fall onto the bloodied ground.
In the silence of aftermath, a healing wind
buffs away soiled leaf litter. Rain cleanses
wounds: sunlight pierces through acrid dust clouds.
Bereaved trees rally. They gather up shrapnel
and bones into cambium caskets, etched forever
on the lineage of their heartwood. In the spring,
new saplings will grow. Undaunted, they will push
through the shell-pocked helmets of fallen men.
hostile crossfire, they can't retreat.
Shellfire shocks them nude, a canvas
of blackened stumps. They can only watch
as their splintered tears fall onto the bloodied ground.
In the silence of aftermath, a healing wind
buffs away soiled leaf litter. Rain cleanses
wounds: sunlight pierces through acrid dust clouds.
Bereaved trees rally. They gather up shrapnel
and bones into cambium caskets, etched forever
on the lineage of their heartwood. In the spring,
new saplings will grow. Undaunted, they will push
through the shell-pocked helmets of fallen men.
Highly Commended
EITHNE LANNON, Ireland
River
It’s the morning after
your dream of dying and you are idling
by the river. Water is slipping
through low hung willow leaves, reed song
drifting. Trees dip and ripple, a quiet wind hidden
in the rhythm of the current, light dimpling
the braided undertow. You watch
an otter slide by
in her sleek pocket of stealth,
tail-pelt flat and flowing,
a shiver of kinship
touches
the fern of your spine. Small gusts
stipple the surface, low tones roll
over breathing rock, rustle pearl-grey gravel,
a nest of pebble-stones gathers
at the edges. Deep in the riverbed,
August sinks to dense sediment.
Meanwhile, the whole day is present tense--
a heron in the shallows unravels
her long shadow, takes flight
into the heart of things,
this old river made from rags
of shale, the way it hangs
its hallowed chimes in passing
valleys, the chorus of its centre,
simple music repeated,
repeated. And you here,
being an aperture.
your dream of dying and you are idling
by the river. Water is slipping
through low hung willow leaves, reed song
drifting. Trees dip and ripple, a quiet wind hidden
in the rhythm of the current, light dimpling
the braided undertow. You watch
an otter slide by
in her sleek pocket of stealth,
tail-pelt flat and flowing,
a shiver of kinship
touches
the fern of your spine. Small gusts
stipple the surface, low tones roll
over breathing rock, rustle pearl-grey gravel,
a nest of pebble-stones gathers
at the edges. Deep in the riverbed,
August sinks to dense sediment.
Meanwhile, the whole day is present tense--
a heron in the shallows unravels
her long shadow, takes flight
into the heart of things,
this old river made from rags
of shale, the way it hangs
its hallowed chimes in passing
valleys, the chorus of its centre,
simple music repeated,
repeated. And you here,
being an aperture.
Highly Commended
JOHN D KELLY, County Fermanagh
Saved by the Ring Ouzel
Deep-green water surrounding us. Dark clouds hanging
over us, on Rathlin. We’re leaving the shelter of Church
Bay. A faint tapping stirs us. We stop. A North Atlantic
Eider is nesting on shingle. Danger’s all around her.
They are low, accessible, all in one basket. Vulnerable
(a bit like us)
in a shallow scrape not far above sea-level, at high tide.
She is sitting – still − in a nest of dried wrack and kelp
lined in the warmest of duck-down from her own breast.
A speck of blood. Her heart is beating fast.
Her precious clutch is beginning to rock her world, tap
into mine. My big chest swells. I’m opening, anticipating.
We’re out bird-watching, breathing heavily. Not talking
until we’re atop a steep, rocky rise and see − up-close −
a pair of buzzards, talons locked, wings not beating; falling
in a tumble (a bit like us) in a game.
I call it aerial chicken. Or is it a plummet
of trust? You tell me I gave you the gift of birds. I smile
a wide one, feel what I thought was lost forever reappear
in my face, in places where other crows’ feet have been: in
the grikes and clints of lived-in skin. I see it reflected in
your dark eyes. We walk on, lighter, breathing easier. At
the edge of a copse of alder, willow and birch we both are
gifted a rare sight and hear, too, the plaintive call of a lone,
black bird that isn’t a Blackbird through shared binoculars.
Up-close, its big, puffed-up breast shines brightly. It blows
me sideways when its white-feathered gorget hits my heart –
and yours, too. You project it onto me now as I imagine
your dazzling grin mirrored in the big wet pupils of my eyes.
over us, on Rathlin. We’re leaving the shelter of Church
Bay. A faint tapping stirs us. We stop. A North Atlantic
Eider is nesting on shingle. Danger’s all around her.
They are low, accessible, all in one basket. Vulnerable
(a bit like us)
in a shallow scrape not far above sea-level, at high tide.
She is sitting – still − in a nest of dried wrack and kelp
lined in the warmest of duck-down from her own breast.
A speck of blood. Her heart is beating fast.
Her precious clutch is beginning to rock her world, tap
into mine. My big chest swells. I’m opening, anticipating.
We’re out bird-watching, breathing heavily. Not talking
until we’re atop a steep, rocky rise and see − up-close −
a pair of buzzards, talons locked, wings not beating; falling
in a tumble (a bit like us) in a game.
I call it aerial chicken. Or is it a plummet
of trust? You tell me I gave you the gift of birds. I smile
a wide one, feel what I thought was lost forever reappear
in my face, in places where other crows’ feet have been: in
the grikes and clints of lived-in skin. I see it reflected in
your dark eyes. We walk on, lighter, breathing easier. At
the edge of a copse of alder, willow and birch we both are
gifted a rare sight and hear, too, the plaintive call of a lone,
black bird that isn’t a Blackbird through shared binoculars.
Up-close, its big, puffed-up breast shines brightly. It blows
me sideways when its white-feathered gorget hits my heart –
and yours, too. You project it onto me now as I imagine
your dazzling grin mirrored in the big wet pupils of my eyes.
Highly Commended
|
JANE SMITH, Cheshire
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Toads During Lockdown
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Locked down, I missed those March nights,
Rain on the tarmac, mist on the land, And your slow, slow journeys back to your natal ponds, Toad minds focused on the job in hand. Many evenings after sitting through the human news With its daily body counts and endless flow charts, I looked out at the shared stars and pictured you crossing safely, Back to where you were born, no trucks, no cars. Anthropause! It’s what I’d wished for you each Spring - No traffic, no tyres crushing toad lives and lust; But the price we paid was high, so high - A plague, a plague on all of us. Though I cried for people’s sorrow, There was a soft green shoot of hope for us yet. Could we live differently, humbly, more kindly? Rediscover our species and its seasons, re-set? One night I watched through a window our common moon, Imagining the lanes alive with your throaty chords, And heard the radio downstairs, The Beatles coming up through the floorboards, Singing your toad message With a human song: We just need to get back, Back to where we once belonged. |
Highly Commended
D W EVANS, Channel Islands
Vigil
Not only are the white flowers of the snowdrop a sight to behold, its bulb contains the alkaloid galantamine –
approved for use in the management of Alzheimer's disease in over 70 countries worldwide…
Two-tone stark, crozier necked, cowl bright white
like bridal silk fresh worn - you come humble proud
leading the quick to find the lost. Open glimpses of whereabouts,
name faces, anchor a drifting mind a while.
It is a brittle a spell,
a small pause in forgetting; any spark of memory is a miracle.
Your resurrection in death fields is kind and cruel simultaneously –
all necromancy is.
No blankets or duvets, no pretty shawls, just button holes
and lean bouquets for overstated stones -
marble, lime, and sand.
Token and no stones you favour too.
Powerless powder people in unkempt acres: hawker, barker, bawd, beggar.
Pegging out.
Tucking in.
Wreathing over.
Here, where the whole steadily forgets its parts, you remember.
Hold a speckled vigil over cold short days for the world’s living,
those left, the leaving,
the regardless vast legions of the spent, and the ancient old.
Beyond the graveyard’s wall,
the unbaptised, you appear like a prayer for the never known.
approved for use in the management of Alzheimer's disease in over 70 countries worldwide…
Two-tone stark, crozier necked, cowl bright white
like bridal silk fresh worn - you come humble proud
leading the quick to find the lost. Open glimpses of whereabouts,
name faces, anchor a drifting mind a while.
It is a brittle a spell,
a small pause in forgetting; any spark of memory is a miracle.
Your resurrection in death fields is kind and cruel simultaneously –
all necromancy is.
No blankets or duvets, no pretty shawls, just button holes
and lean bouquets for overstated stones -
marble, lime, and sand.
Token and no stones you favour too.
Powerless powder people in unkempt acres: hawker, barker, bawd, beggar.
Pegging out.
Tucking in.
Wreathing over.
Here, where the whole steadily forgets its parts, you remember.
Hold a speckled vigil over cold short days for the world’s living,
those left, the leaving,
the regardless vast legions of the spent, and the ancient old.
Beyond the graveyard’s wall,
the unbaptised, you appear like a prayer for the never known.
The Allen Prize for Best of Shepton
JO MUNROE, Shepton Mallet, Somerset
We drove towards the sunset, she and I,
to catch stunning skies of reds and purples
in an iced lake, on the far side of which
stood her homely cabin in the forest
where logs needed stacking and mice needed culling
and nearby wolverines dragged prey to lairs,
beneath bouldered folk wearing moss for hair.
I wrench myself away, a colder day
when roads, awash with frozen frost, skate me
back to the train, to the sea, to the huge
gaps between she and me, so difficult
to cross, where I will watch for snowdrops’ blooms
among British rocks, softening the bound-
aries of isolation, their green blades
of hope for a year of freedom, not fear.
While our weather catches up with hers, I
reminisce about the stark white of her
land reflected in pure, petal bells, ring-
ing in a new season and trust in the
Nisser of old who surround her abode;
I’ll recall the fire in the grate, the
cat on the shelf and the food in the hall
knowing she will be warmed from the hardened
winter and the harsh vår after which the
roads will thaw again, both here and there,
lifting restrictions. Innocent ladies
beckon Spring and the faith of light begins.
to catch stunning skies of reds and purples
in an iced lake, on the far side of which
stood her homely cabin in the forest
where logs needed stacking and mice needed culling
and nearby wolverines dragged prey to lairs,
beneath bouldered folk wearing moss for hair.
I wrench myself away, a colder day
when roads, awash with frozen frost, skate me
back to the train, to the sea, to the huge
gaps between she and me, so difficult
to cross, where I will watch for snowdrops’ blooms
among British rocks, softening the bound-
aries of isolation, their green blades
of hope for a year of freedom, not fear.
While our weather catches up with hers, I
reminisce about the stark white of her
land reflected in pure, petal bells, ring-
ing in a new season and trust in the
Nisser of old who surround her abode;
I’ll recall the fire in the grate, the
cat on the shelf and the food in the hall
knowing she will be warmed from the hardened
winter and the harsh vår after which the
roads will thaw again, both here and there,
lifting restrictions. Innocent ladies
beckon Spring and the faith of light begins.
