We recently announced the results of our poetry competition and the three winners have agreed to have their poems published on our blog. So here, in reverse order, are three wonderful poems on the subject of ‘hope’.

In third place was Fay Dickinson from Corby:

Sky Skaters

I hear the call,
A soft melodic cry,
Like a schoolboy whistling.
In the cloud-bruised sky
There are three red kites
With tails taut and wide
Stretched wings.
They sweep, glide,
Pirouette above roof tops,
Ride the wind, leisurely loop
And send me soaring too
With each sweet swoop.
Once a protected species
And a rare sight
The kites sky-skate the air
In mesmerising flight.
As environmental destruction
Hurtles apace
These birds, in a word,
Can offer some grace.


In second place was Phil Vernon from Tunbridge Wells:

Catching the train to work from the suburbs

Today the blackbird sings for the first time:
a warp for the robin’s weft; their sonic loom
afloat in the lifted mist, its weight defined
by the delicate silence it drifts upon.

Behind, the door latch gently clicks; ahead, the dew-
drops pick out daffodils in liquid light;
the green and crimson perfect curve of new-
growth rose stems claiming vigour overnight.

Fresh honeysuckle leave unfurl like rows
of twins on tendrils searching sightlessly.
My neighbour’s newly white-washed cottage shows,
in silhouette, her awkward apple tree.

I step into the morning, walk through zone
on zone of overlapping birsong cast
from slender branches, garden shrubs, the lone
oak’s healed limb, announcing winter’s passed.

A boy walks through like-music more than four
decades ago. He feels, but does not see
the distant ploughman, paused, eyes raised in awe:
transported by the moment touching me.

Today’s the magic Leaping Forward Day
which startles us with light and lige each year:
unheralded, obscurity cedes way
to lustre; in this moment, all is clear.


And the winner was Peter Wyton from Gloucester:

Hoping For Inspiration

I wait for inspiration’s knock
in the computer screen’s soft glow.
My head is on the writer’s block.

Downstairs, our old grandfather clock
raps out the hour, five minutes slow.
I wait for inspiration’s knock.

Somehow I have to pick the lock,
burgle the brain bank’s rhythmic flow.
My head is on the writer’s block.

Lamb-like, words frolic by. They mock
my shoddy shepherding and go.
I wait for inspiration’s knock.

The waste bin’s full of poppycock
and verbal braggadocio.
My head is on the writer’s block.

I’m a linguistic laughing stock.
What’s the solution? I don’t know.
I wait for inspiration’s knock.
My head is on the writer’s block.


Congratulations to the winners and many thanks to all that entered!


One thought on “Winning Poems, 2017

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