First Prize – Carmel Summers and Anne Benjamin
‘Still Life’
| of those good years I recall only outlines like a Matisse sketch reduced to crayon strokes these days, none of them bold | ||
| light brushes the pearl of her earring as she turns back – luminous girl in a room dark with shadows | ||
| apples polished knobbly pears arranged just so in lockdown, we become our own still life | ||
| in their field they pause over basket and pitchfork, bent in prayer evening bells remind me all the things I’ve yet to do | ||
| daffodils and magpie jollity in my garden impossible not to join in | ||
| across the street school kids skip and squeal uninhibited, if only my feet kept up with the rest of me | ||
| nesting cockatoos on their hollow tree eye me warily neither they, nor I, wanting to share their safe refuge | ||
| a little frog in the bath upstairs surprises us both – I wonder should I kiss him | ||
| some nudge elbows others simply stand back hand to heart on my doorstep a posy… flowers from a friend’s garden | ||
| eighty-year old oak our neighbour cut so hard now shimmers iridescent as fresh lime the way I plan to grow old | ||
| going, going, gone our family farm surrendered to a keen bidder will he discover dreams we buried in the soil? | ||
| our phone connection prickles with static – I plant three scarlet petunias in shiny red pots | ||
| information everywhere I turn fact or fiction – in these uncertain times how much I want to believe | ||
| blocked by basalt rocks midstream, the creek eddies round – in the swirl and flow I find a way that’s mine | ||
| spray rises where the water falls hardest sparkles of hope when all seems low | ||
Second Prize – Gerry Jacobsen
‘In a Canberra Garden’
| plum blossom drifts like snow opening my eyes the woodpile has survived one more winter |
| alone … preparing veggie beds planting seeds in the silence sadness sprouts |
| Christmas morning cicadas chirping flies buzzing mossies biting cockatoos squawking |
| dome of heat shiver of fear a dragon breathing fire and smoke … our country burns |
| March that bakes the Limestone Plains dry thistles scratch my ankles grass seeds stick to my socks |
| pumpkin vines on the rampage in the chook yard the old black hen reluctant to descend |
| midwinter chore … I dig up old plants divide the crowns spreading rhubarb all over this world |
Third Prize – Hazel Hall
‘Moments of Gold and Green’
| how to mend this broken world with no gold maybe poetry will help to bind the pieces |
| ravaged landscape from a single match nature waits . . . at the end of hope will green appear again? |
| forest light filters through leaves a jazz moment as two king parrots sing the greens |
| a flock of yobs with crests of lemon ride the wind screeching graffiti feasting on my figs |
Third Prize – David Terelinck
‘Godlight at Dusk’
| landscapes of standing stones & heather — how could I know falling in love at my age would feel like this |
| honeyed years when I was far too old for another cat but far too young to live alone |
| I gave no thought to questions of what if and when – the hottest fires burn from the driest kindling |
| balancing heartache with hope – the breeze feathering wild fennel, godlight at dusk |
Fourth Prize – Amelia Fielden
‘Untested Depth’
| not quite light outside, the first birds chirping and close-by my dog softly breathing … another day of life |
| a King parrot thuds against my kitchen window — dark despair in the Prime Minister’s voice on The Today Show |
Fourth Prize – Kathy Kituai and Barbara Curnow
‘Will We Ever know’
| the cat watches the tap drip for hours I too, spend time pondering the meaning of life |
| will we ever know what existed before the Big Bang… I busy myself with family history |
| should I worry if I’m English Scottish or Australian kookaburras laughing … scent of gum leaves on the wind |
| the paper bark tree lived its long life by the lake… what I’d give to be sure of my place in the world |