SHEPTON SNOWDROPS
  • Home
  • Shepton Open Gardens
    • The Gardens
  • News
  • 2022 Festival
    • Programme
    • Car Parking & Location Maps
    • Specialist Plant Sales
    • James Allen Celebratory Events
    • Arts and Craft >
      • Artists & Makers
      • Art, Antiques & Vintage Trail
      • Things to do and see
    • Workshops
    • Events
    • Children's Activities 2022
    • Gardens & Snowdrop Walks
    • Festival Supporters 2022
  • Competitions 2022
    • Competitions Prize Giving
    • Poetry Competition 2022 >
      • 2022 Poetry Competition Results
      • 18 & Over finalists' poetry
      • 12 to 17 finalists' poetry
      • 11 & Under finalists' poetry
    • Photography Competition 2022 >
      • 2022 Photography Competition Results
      • 18 & Over finalists' photography
      • 12 to 17 finalists' photography
      • 11 and under finalists' photography
  • Get involved
    • Snowdrop Bulbs
  • James Allen's Story
  • GALLERY

2020
​Poetry
Results

The 2020 Poetry Readings and Prize-giving took place in the Parish Church of St Peter & St Paul in Shepton Mallet on Saturday 15th February 2020.

Picture
We would like to thank our sponsors Harris + Harris Solicitors for their ongoing support of the Poetry Competiton.

Picture
​The 2020 Poetry Competition has been judged by  Jane Draycott who lives in Oxfordshire
www.janedraycott.org.uk
Jane Draycott is a poet and translator, whose collections from Carcanet Press include The Occupant, Over (nominated for the T S Eliot Prize), Prince Rupert's Drop (nominated for the Forward Prize for Poetry) and a modern translation of Pearl, a medieval dream-elegy for an infant girl.

A recipient of the Keats Shelley Prize for Poetry, she has been nominated as a Next Generation Poet, been Writer in Residence in Amsterdam, and was winner of the 2014 Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine.

She teaches on creative writing programmes at the Universities of Oxford and Lancaster.



​The copyright in all of these works rests with their authors
Winners
18 & Over
Quiet Curves
, Sarah James,  Droitwich

Midnight passes; you’re working late,
entrenched in the worn armchair
beneath our snowdrop-shaped lamp.
White blown-glass petals soft-light
your bowed head, book and papers.
Lost hours cast patchy shadows
on the lounge wall: flameless candles,
or small arches to somewhere unknown.

I miss you, wherever it is you go then.
While you sleep in, I wake to the year’s
first glimpse of snowdrops, spilt-milking
the lane’s wet grass. Their quiet curves
catch grit spun from cars passing too fast
to notice the half-hidden floorshow.
Tired drivers miss the wind’s dance
as delicate as your eyes and fingers

chasing words across the page.
When you do rise, I will share this,
though words won’t be the same
as white petals flickering with dawn.
These stalks slant more surely
than the hopes we can’t yet voice.
Soon there will be crocuses,
bold daffodils and unbuttoned tulips.

But first the cusp of winter
into spring, and a need to trust
in opening up and letting go
of the cold fears we’ve hugged
tight in our closed petals.

12 to 17           
about the rebirth, Anya Trofimova, London

never fear            old friend,
          dormancy is also          transient,

        same as your      winter        depression.

  when the year      has finally        yawned and
turned        upon a             half-revealed shoulder

     remember    the first         scrambling      moil
         of enchanting     white       snowdrops      break

our backyard drowse of seasonal disrepair;

  the first         sparse          and tentative      spills as they
appear        uninvited         on our       neatly tendered

       roundabouts, spring’s       exploding           over the
curb’s edges in         alabaster petals,   winking like children
      striving for the        tallest            obejct they can reach.

sweet     warm        honey and milk         combined
          and        dropped into the           melting       snow.


        the other day    I nearly picked
a bunch for you,       my dear friend,

    but remembered   in time
how in     your      own   garden

        you’d always prefer        to let them
  shrivel         back      into the  coldest   soil,

how you'd     stubbornly insist
that it         
invigorates   next year’s stock.

11 & Under
I Dream of an Invisible Realm,

Aurora Blue, Stoke-on-Trent        

snow drops
onto a grey-green lawn
in an early dawn light
lit by a lunar eye;
a bride-white, spotless confetti
falls and drifts silent,
dissolving spectral snowdrops,
whose veiled heads hover above
camouflaged bodies,
absorbing their matt absence
of colour into pure invisibleness,
like the whiteness of sunlight at dawn

this is a marriage of two witnesses
and of two whitenesses

the garden wears a wedding bouquet
over its sleeping banquette

ghost-shapes of former things
disappear,
as do horizons -
and near boundaries blur grey,

all is cloaked in a new peace and silence...

WINTER FLOWER

Special Mention
18 & Over
Daughters, Estelle Price, Cheshire


Right until the end you said you preferred cowslips. Adored how they appeared, like a yellow tablecloth
in the field, when winter’s grey silences could be forgotten
when it was safe to walk to the gate without my arm.

They were so compelling, you’d pick a handful, place them
in your favourite Spode jar on the windowsill, inform
your carers how perfect were the egg-yolk flowers,
cupped like little cooing mouths waiting to be fed. Not

for them the inappropriate thrust towards the light
when snow still crisped the sleeping soil. Not for them
the porcelain petals that made you think of death.
I don’t remember you ever clearing space for snowdrops in your kitchen, only noticing when their stalks bent
as if you thought loving them came with too much risk.


18 & Over
The Snowdrops are out in the Park, Alison Riley, East Yorkshire


I. Him
Hard as frozen earth, cool as a corpse.
An ignominious start – born in a cold flat,
dad legged it, mum never hugged him.
It’s all black and white. Pauper prince
in green combats, white hoodie.
Three green stars on the back of his hand:
one for each kid – throwing snow until
they look like snowmen.

II. Her
A slip of a lass, cool as collagen,
beautiful skin, in spite of her diet.
Hair tucked in a beanie hat. White coat,
green leggings. Wants no hot tea or sympathy.
Life’s shades of grey. She could have been a painter
but her work’s cut out with three under-fives –
lying in the snow, making snow-angels.
12 to 17
The Coders,Tomas Lockyer, Shepton Mallet
Schools Commendation - Whitstone School


Take a moment to think, about the white flowers.
One of them is the Snowdrop.
Why are they drooping?
Why are they sad?

Take a moment to ask, are they alien?
How can they be from Earth?
How can they blend in so well?
What language do they speak?

Take a moment and pause, look at them
They are a mirror, but onto what?
What are they saying?
Why do the code U?

They wait for the right person.
They wait for the right time.
They wait for the question,
Why can’t I remember?

Stare at them and they stare back,
Wonder about them and they wonder about you.
Talk to them and they talk back.
Talking about your history.

The moment you’re born, a snowdrop awakes.
Awaken to record your history
They recall and they can talk.
But only to you.

They talk about that question
The reason you can’t remember, is they remember for you.
To you they are known as snowdrops,
To a few they are known as Coders.
11 & Under
The Snowdrop, Jasmine Kneebone, Stanchester Academy


The snowdrop in snow falling
The snowdrop in sky blue
Lasts through harshest wind
Stands firmly in its dripping green shoes

Winter comes and winter goes
Will they survive through summer?
Who knows

The snowdrop droops
The other rainbow flowers thrive
Standing tall over the proud, chalky flowers
Again in winter they will come alive

The trees overhead bend like old men
The branches moan
Shaking snow off heavy withered leaves
Snowdrop sits beneath
Wind swirls as the Snowdrop grieves
Trees blossom

Snowdrops shine bright like stars
With dew beneath sun
They start to dance in the wind
Oh such fun!

The humans run and play
Splashing through the ice covered water
While the snowdrop watches
Head bent in thought



Highly Commended
18 & Over

On quiet small days - Virginia Astley, Dorset

In the lull of February
the trees all stick, bristle,
mummified berries
it’s possible to walk at night
by a fortified river
to a churchyard
frilled with snowdrops
to reach out to the magnolia
just in bud –
to be who you might have been.


And when the day opens
on celandines and crocuses
violets and primroses
and an outbreak of blackthorn
changes our lane
you notice how the sun
moves round
how everything in turn
receives its share of light.




Snowdrops, Highfield House - James Baty, London

Time was,
they were on every surface, rising up like
raindrops in reverse.
Moving a book, you would come across one,
long green stems firm in soil as if slipped,
fallen from God’s hands,
time was.


Time was,
they were bulbs in corners, bulbs in pockets,
heads of bulbs, hiding in the onions,
or old and hoary,
petals crinkled like wet paper,
they brushed the floor, were
old white moths touching wingtips,
time was.


And when the first grey furs appeared
he was ruthless, almost wept
to kill so many, see so many
sink beneath the mould like living frost.
Like buzzing flies remembered now too late
too late the small pale seed of death

they held between their teeth,
time was.


Would there be snowdrops? - Jenny Dooley, Devon

If I returned to the wild roadside
to that breathless slice
between death and life
when you were squashed into a place
too small to hold a human,

would I feel you there in the voltaic air
and would there be snowdrops?


Twenty-seven years ago I knelt
on the unforgiving verge
to dig the hard white clay
to plant hard white bulbs
where your song was cut

and your generous spirit floated away
like a red balloon.


Your blood, my tears,
all those years
and surely the hypnotic gleam
of green-tinged snowdrops
nodding in minute reverence
a galvanic mist electrifying the darkness
charging space
daring the decades as they drift
like banks of wind-blown snow.


For Deliverance From Snowdrops - Dominic Fisher, Bristol

Keep them from our sight, your snowdrops
              lock them, Dark Mother

              in a vault of long hours.

Bind them under a tomorrow
              where we see only an incline
              a skyline, tree fingers.


Let them not come out
              like white burrowing bees

              these long wrong months.

Let their blades and points
              not pierce the surface

to taunt us with our crimes.

Keep them as you keep us
in our hideouts, nursing sparks
conserving a small store of fuel.


We are your creatures now
              hard-wired to your service,
              hold the snowdrops back, Mother Night


until the world tips and true bees can come.
              Release them only then

              under birches and blackthorn

              like a last fall of snow.


The Hungerford Line - John Wheeler, Kent

From the window
the land is mirrored
in winter rain


iron branches are
bolted against
a sky
swept

with a single stroke of grey.

Here inside
they
order cappuccino
click at spreadsheets
playlisten to a phone
and miss


coal-black canals

white swans


a strong horse
motionless against the woods


and the sharp green promise of the snowdrops
against the still cold earth.


White - Dilys Wood, West Sussex

To the end she hopes she’ll still be seeking
knowledge, taking a long look, trying
to make a memory of snowdrop clumps
in raised beds, on eye-level when drawing up
in the wheelchair. Bells hang on nothing! Green
striations make white look whiter. ‘New Year’,
‘New-Born’ are names she’ll give to white
as pure as this. These are the common kind:
children know the flower and its challenge
to lifeless winter; she’s excited, though,
as if eye-to-eye with exotica, sensing
risk, one of nature’s wilder gambles...
Her black mood shifts. Looking and still looking
she cuts deeply into a raw white core.



The Allen Prize for Best of Shepton

The Power of Nature - Belinda Blackwell

Surviving the winds, so cold, waiting for the sun to shine, a solitary white flower beside a
yew, sleeping by a small green mound, a piece of stone – a snowdrop proudly stands alone.


A visitor graced amidst her darkest hour, a droplet fell upon milk-white, and forthwith the
sun arose she glimpsed the flower where her tear lay bright. Bowing head so innocent found,
a child once born, the bells ring loud.


The flower – tiny and brave, mark with courage the little grave. Enduring life humble and
wise, sometimes lifts a face disguised. Its magic empowers that one day the birds will sing
and give her strength of heart again.


She smiled and thanked the power of nature - little beauty dressed in white, touched with the
colour of life and light. The magic of a single flower had warmed her heart, and now
tomorrow, she would have a better day, to live in the hope of joy, one day.


The following year, a blanket for her resting child, in white, a beauteous sight. A solitary
flower surrounded by friends, to you, dear mother, their hearts they send. A sign of a brighter
day – when snowdrops, like snow – adorn the way.







12 to 17
Ol’ Bernadette and the Snowdrops - Jolin Chan, USA

Ol’ Bernadette matched her snowdrops--
drooping low, head graced with white,
woolen emerald vest knitted by hand.


Ol’ Bernadette dreamed of summer,
a vague, California-esque landscape
with poppies and buttercups. Red carpet
under her feet and gold dancing
around her eyes.


But Ol’ Bernadette loved her snowdrops,
whispering words of yearning on a wooden stool.
Ever since the peonies left, they needed it.


So Ol’ Bernadette stood tall—well, as tall
as she could. Gifting them the gold in her eyes,
the warmth of her heart, she was their sun.
In the summer, she waited
for them to rise again.



Snowdrops - Riley Green, Whitstone School

White capped warriors, fighting the weather,
Standing in their thousands row upon row.
Attached to the ground like a dog on a tether
Braving the cold, the wind, and the snow.


Covering the floor like a blanket of cotton,
Soaking the countryside in a sea of white.
Beautiful and angelic from top to bottom,
Blowing and glowing in the dead of night.

Forceful yet peaceful, strong yet calm,
Pushing through the ground like a rabbit in his burrow.
Strong enough to live, but soothing as a balm
Fighting hard today so they come out tomorrow.



A Field of Snowdrops - Isabelle Horrocks-Taylor,
Northamptonshire


A soldier
He looks out upon the minefield
Stained with rubble and red
The winter air is biting
A Cold War emerging
But no flag of white in sight
Flailing in the bitter wind
To liberate or to give hope
Or give a breath of warmth
And he treats every step with care
And tends every step with concern
It takes one slip of his boot
To end a life.


A boy
He looks out upon the minefield
Cleansed with flowers of white
And his scarf flies
As it embraces the breeze
In love and peace
The winter air is singing
But he dare not dance to the song
He treats every step with care
And tends every step with concern
It takes one slip of his boot
To end a life.



Nanu - Jenny O’Gorman, Edinburgh

We shiver too
In the starry frost that strips you to the bone.
Like gloved hands our stems are buried
Deep, we do not emerge
Until first-light breaks through the endless night.


And in the cobbled street, the sounds of feet
Are quiet in the snow, but in the soil we do keep
To remind you this deathlike sleep is only for a while.


Nanu was born in February.
Her cancer came swiftly in a blind
Sweep of the scythe. Her soft white hair drooped and
Fell, sure destruction came with machinery and poisons
But she never stood down, though her hands cowered
On their stalks.


She whispered “Grandchildren - lay your palms open,
Here are seventy snowdrops for my 70 years
They’ll come up every year on my birthday
And I will live again.”


When all seems quite, dark and dead,
I wait for snowdrops in my head.


They rise
From the earth like restless brooks that stay and still depart Before spring grass is green. White-helmet heads bowed Like medieval knights climbing up the spiral staircase roots, Like bobbing boats at Oban when the way is clear ahead

And winter runs towards the outstretched spring In its warm cheerful dress
As grandchildren do.



Five Uses for a Snowdrop - Madeleine Oliver, Tonbridge

I
Fill your bath with snowdrops and you will find
that they will clasp your skin like water would,
forming white droplets with their beady heads
on your stomach, against your hairs, like dew on grass.
Let their petals mummify you in a new membrane.

II
By placing a snowdrop on your lower lip and closing
your eyes, you will be aware of a new sensation,
a space of cold, like the curved face of a spoon
with the lightness of a new-born’s fingernail.
Let a snowdrop substitute for a kiss, gentle and cool.

III
A petal like this is interchangeable with an eyelid.
See the veiny fibres, like a sieve, dissecting daylight
and as you line it with the curve of your eyeball,
you will only find a muted kind of orange sunshine.
Let this flower blink for you, let it daytime-snooze for you.

IV
In case of an emergency, a splinter or a scraped knee,
this petal may become a plaster. It will trace your skin
with a silver wax, binding to your flesh like the seal
of an envelope, twisting your wrinkles together.
Let a snowdrop mother you like this, it is like a womb.

V

Perhaps, you will say your “I Dos” through a
snowdrop veil. It will cup your face with warm
shadows and you will catch the first scent of spring,
crisp as clean bed sheets on the cup of your cupid's bow.
Let a snowdrop embody the temperature of these soft vows.



Snowdrop Tapestry - Dhylan Patel, London

Dripping cans and dirt-dust pots,
Scissors snipping brisk,
Bag cut, it weeps, odour seeps,
Round greenhouse like a whisk.
Dense dark brown sliced through,
Enters metal trowel,

Forks generous sliver into pot,
Pats bouncing pile down.
Adorned with glowing crown,
With vestments of white,

Bars of green and silver bells,
Like shining lampposts bright.
Or rather like umbrellas,
Which huddled cross the street,
Mixed colours shapes all jumble,
When their spindly handles meet.
Then several summers later,
They rise to droop again,
Domesticated rain forest,
A jar of coloured pens.
From uniform descendent,
To assorted zoo of sons,
A circus full of daughters,
Where their changing genome runs.



Explosion (poem with a twist) - Cornéliu Tocan, Canada

All scientists agreed with that,
It was the overwhelming heat
Helping the bursting to succeed.

No weatherman was able to predict,
It was evidently a matter of wind
Producing some extra hot steam.


The chemists also conjectured
The unusual pressure of the mercury
Able to raise any puddle to a gas.


The physicists forgot the eclipse glasses,
Suddenly the sky burst into a blaze
The flame appearing to spread by itself.

No photographers were there in time.
The flickering fire melted the eyes.
For a while, was it still really noon?

For astronomers was quite invisible.
There was a round white glow
Dripping down to the earth.


In the white-dressed environment,
The sun, crowned with an icy halo,
Coronated the iridescent swaying


Of the snowdrop.



11 & Under
Snowdrops - Josh Gane
Schools Commendation, Croscombe Primary School

Snowdrops they come and go in Sun, Rain and Snow.
They glisten in the beaming sun giving joy to
everyone. If you look closer you will see a small
green heart beating for you and for me. Its tall

thin stalk perks up elegantly and grows to the sky like
a tree. Their fragrance is very sweet and petite. The flower assimilates the dew as it exposes it’s new droplets. It sits
there on the ground with no more of its kind around.



I Like Snowdrops - Jonathan Carroll
Croscombe Primary School


Station to the magical world
No sadness
On the train to the magic world
Waving in the wind

Snowdrops take you down
To the magical world
Ready to explore
Open your imaginations
Popping out of the ground
I like snowdrops.



Snowdrops – Phoebe Hopkins
Schools Commendation, Ditcheat Primary School


A snowdrop is like a showerhead facing down
It’s not like a ball rolling on the floor
It’s not like a person trying to run 5 m
It’s not like cars driving to school

It’s not like a rose bush growing
It’s not like a bird singing
It’s not like a plane flying
A snowdrop is like a showerhead facing down



Snowdrop Winter - Sophia Meader
Ditcheat Primary School


As the pale white snowdrops bowed their heads
like praying nuns, I froze top to toe. A crystal clear drop fell from the white flower onto the tears of the white winter.
I crouched down to stroke the beautiful looking
snowdrop’s soft blankets covering the green insides of it.
As the snowdrops continued to drip their surreal tears, the damp cold snow began to turn to wet slush. Slowly
growing bigger and bigger, a purely white petal fell to
the white ground. No longer snow or slush, the ground
turned to damp green grass. The harsh breeze slowed
down. The cold air began to turn into a world of
warmness. Winter was finally ending as the bright green
stem began to turn brown. All the petals fell to the
ground. The beautiful white snowdrops were no longer beautiful and no longer here until next year.



Snowdrops - Lexy Buckland
Schools Commendation, Sidcot School


Snowdrops bloom in the winter gloom,
Rising from the stoney grave
Peeping through the bitter land,
Like a sunrise following a wild winter’s night.
Brave and bold bending in the wind that freezes.
Beautiful against the ancient winter trees.


Such hope follows when the snowdrops come,
It means winter’s grasp has nearly gone.
As sunlight appears the snow vanishes from its earth,
The snowdrop gathers its strength to burst.
Casting shadows on the newly grown grove,
Adding to mother nature’s treasure trove.


How lucky we are to see so much beauty,
In fields and wood and above winter burrows.
Remember to stop and admire the views,
It won’t be here long, there’s time to lose.
Tiptoe gently around this precious life,
Preserve its delicate features until it dies.



Snow drops - Tilly Mead
Sidcot School


The delicate petals fall,
On early frosty morns,
They come when the cold is here,
Leave when the frost steals them away.

We question why their petals fade,
Or if we really see them so,
Do they know they touch the world?
And reach up to the angels above.

Do we know what they are
If they are all what they seem to be.
Are they innocent?
Are they hiding beneath their purity?
They are..............
The spirits of cold,
The winter flower,
The white heart,
The pure rose,
The bud of eternity,
The waking of new life,
The white fire in everyone’s heart.



The White Army – Archie Blee
Schools Commendation, Wells Cathedral Junior School


In a meadow running free with the breeze guiding me,
Paying homage to the season and woodland deity.
Strong yet small, dipped head and all in the forest armies lie,
White as snow, vast as the sea, with beauty unrivalled to my eye.


Galant battalions breaking through the ever frozen soil,
Hear their sighs after their arduous daytime toil.
Short-lived they make way for the heralds of Spring,
To their wintery, frost-specked life they cling.


Snowdrop - Daniel Lewis & Riley Candy-Nicholls
Whitstone School


Wanna see my snowdrop x4
A frozen gasp in my mouth
I’m a snowdrop ready to drop, what do they hide?
They hide nothing
(repeat nothing x4)
Hey you there, what’s the matter little plant
you feeling down?
It’s time to be strong and fight your way out,
(repeat x3)
I’m powerful, bigger than ever
I rise to shine, on the last day of December,
Looking better than ever.
(Wanna see my snowdrop x1)(fade)



Snowdrops - Leo Wiseman, London

Oh flower of spring; small beauty!
So, proud people, add your jewellery –
for never shall you be
spectacular as a snowdrop.
I think even the
wizard of wizards
could not conjure a thing as
divine as you.
So, snowdrop, grow
bulb to blossom
and survive the harsh winter.
Live, snowdrop, live.




Judge's Comments
from the 2020 judge, Jane Draycott

James Allen called two of his most well-known snowdrop varieties ‘Merlin’ and ‘Magnet’, conjuring with both names the magical attraction they can hold for us when we first catch sight of them in deep midwinter, with their flash of green growth and their sudden bright appearance out of the cold and dark.

You might think that snowdrops with their immediate call to images of whiteness and snow might be hard to write about in fresh new ways, but so many young poets in the ‘11 & Under’ category have managed to do just that, writing poems which were almost like songs or inventive new fables or tales.

Reading the poems in this category, as well as the ‘12 to 17’ poems, I realised that I was learning more about snowdrops than I ever knew before – their relationship to the weather and the seasons, the small botanical details of the plant’s formation and habit – for which I have to thank those poets. Many beautiful poems in the ‘12 to 17’ category were also alert to the ‘drop’ in snowdrop, its association with images of tears or jewels, of falling, of bowing the head or of prayer. In this age group too, there were several very strong poems which used the snowdrop to think about human situations, often very interestingly using character and drama to explore feelings common to us all.
The ‘18 & Over’ category was rich with poems that were transformative, elegiac, personal, attentive to the many-faceted emblematic charge of the flower: as a marker in the year, a sign of new or recurring life, of the persistence of deep memory, of a quiet light of hope and survival.

In all of the categories, the Winners’ and Special Mention poems stood out from the promising Highly Commended entries for their strong power to not just engage our imaginations but to surprise us as well, travelling a long distance in their short span.

So, a competition that’s not just a unique celebration but a necessary one, and a wonderful marker for the new decade as we watch the first snowdrops of 2020 appear as if by magic, again.

Jane Draycott, February 1st, 2020
The 2019 poetry winners can be viewed here
Picture
Dan Pearson, our Patron

Picture
Shepton Snowdrops and the Festival is organised by the
​not for profit community organisation,
​ Shepton Mallet Snowdrop Project CIC. 
Registered in England. Company No 12059138.
Registered Office, Allways, West Shepto
​n, Shepton Mallet, Somerset, BA4 5UH.

 Contact Us

Privacy Policy
Site Background snowdrop photograph
​James Allen's Galanthus Magnet 
Logo snowdrop photograph
James Allen's Galanthus Merlin
  • Home
  • Shepton Open Gardens
    • The Gardens
  • News
  • 2022 Festival
    • Programme
    • Car Parking & Location Maps
    • Specialist Plant Sales
    • James Allen Celebratory Events
    • Arts and Craft >
      • Artists & Makers
      • Art, Antiques & Vintage Trail
      • Things to do and see
    • Workshops
    • Events
    • Children's Activities 2022
    • Gardens & Snowdrop Walks
    • Festival Supporters 2022
  • Competitions 2022
    • Competitions Prize Giving
    • Poetry Competition 2022 >
      • 2022 Poetry Competition Results
      • 18 & Over finalists' poetry
      • 12 to 17 finalists' poetry
      • 11 & Under finalists' poetry
    • Photography Competition 2022 >
      • 2022 Photography Competition Results
      • 18 & Over finalists' photography
      • 12 to 17 finalists' photography
      • 11 and under finalists' photography
  • Get involved
    • Snowdrop Bulbs
  • James Allen's Story
  • GALLERY