2011 POETRY COMPETITION WINNERS
Congratulations to the winners of the 2011 Festival Poetry Competitions:
BROKEN SKI AWARD (poems below)
OPEN WINNER - Carol Heuchan, from Hunter Valley, for her poem Trails.
Highly Commended was Don Adams from NZ for his poem The Fate of the Brumby
JUNIOR WINNER - Jake Taylor-Friend, from Jindabyne, aged 7.
SNOWY POETRY CUP
Was held at the Sundeck Hotel on Sunday 12 June. The Winner was Sam Martin of Candelo.
Trails
Carol Heuchan
We had skied the Bogong High Plain
and were gathered ’round the fire
in a hut beneath the snowline,
warmth and friendship to acquire,
while reflecting on the doings of the day.
We recalled the thrill of drifting
through the powder, gliding free,
in an isolated region
where mankind would seldom be,
with the worries of the world a world away.
There’d been white-caped silent snow gums
standing sentry, row on row.
There’d been trails of tiny paw prints
tracking pristine, virgin snow.
So we shared the joys and visions we had seen.
We all marvelled at the wonders
of this land’s diversity,
of its snow topped peaks, red outback,
of its beaches by the sea,
nothing like it anywhere we’d ever been.
As we mellowed in the firelight
and the gluhwein warmed us through,
so we looked towards each other
(as one often tends to do)
sharing glimpses of our homes and who we were.
The old weathered, creaking hut
was leaning in to hold us close,
in a hushed and hallowed silence,
(just its visitors verbose)
as it strained to hear the stories and confer.
We had come from far flung places,
many different walks of life,
mottled band of well-worn trav’llers,
(weather beaten signs were rife)
with a common love of skiing here to share.
As we proudly told of homelands,
talked of roots and family trees,
one withdrew from contribution,
with her arms hugged ’round her knees,
only embered coals reflected in her stare.
Then she haltingly put forward
she’d no family at all,
just a string of foster parents
that she’d rather not recall,
with her early home a long forgotten place.
She’d been born in Larkspen, England,
lived in every town on earth,
passed around and left unwanted
since her mother died in birth
and her flippancy belied the tragic face.
“Did you say the town of Larkspen?
I could scarce believe I heard.”
said a woman, not much older,
who had hung on every word.
“It’s a tiny little village, scarcely known.”
“There were two of us adopted
and my memory serves me clear.
Did you say your name was Beth, then?
Let me draw the lantern near.”
Ah, the seeds of possibility were sown.
“Too much of a coincidence.
It just could not be true.
And yet - it’s unmistakeable -
I do look a lot like you...”
Oh, the shock of recognition like champagne.
And the wind paused in its whistling
and the hut basked in the glow.
Then four trembling steps were taken
as the tears began to flow,
and two sisters held each other once again.
GREAT SNOW!!!
Jake Taylor, Dalgety Public School, 7 years old
When the snow arrives I shiver –
Just from excitement!
It makes me smile
And fills me with glee.
It’s so fun when the snow’s around.
I make snow angels on the ground.
Even I ski up on the mountains.
It makes me happy!
I feel like there’s a rainbow in the sky...
When the clouds come over
and it starts to rain
I don’t mind because
I come down again – for my lunch.
Then I rise back up the mountains again...
The Fate of the Brumby
D.G.(Don) Adams
The stallion was restless. Despite the lush grass
he niggled and bullied his mares
away from the flats where the cover was sparse.
He wouldn't be caught unaware.
The reason he worried was not really clear;
no sign of the humans who caused him such fear,
no challenging stallion seemed anywhere near.
But still, something warned him- Beware!
With quivering nostrils he searched all around,
while in him uneasiness grew.
His ears flicked and reached for the first foreign sound
that told him his instincts were true.
Then, poised like a pointer, alert and alive,
he heard a faint buzzing like bees from a hive.
He waited no longer. He knew he must drive
his small herd still further from view.
A sound from his past life, he'd heard it before,
was sure it brought panic and pain.
That strange birds would come with a frightening roar
to drive them again and again.
Away to the bush at his urging they sped.
But 'Terror Birds' caught them and whirled overhead.
Confused by the noise the mob scattered and fled
to danger- the wide open plain.
Alarmed, he surged forward to wheel them but they,
in whinnying fear, blundered on.
The 'Terror Birds' flanked them and, to his dismay,
he knew they were finally gone.
Wherever they bolted those birds seem to loom
to drive them through fences with less and less room,
'til crushed into yards, iron gates clanged their doom!
And death would be host from now on.
But not the great stallion- he'd never submit,
no matter how loud the whips crack.
No halter could hold him, no bridle or bit.
Imagine- that horse as a hack?
Or slaughtered! Great Heavens, could you use a gun
on such a fine creature? No, he's born to run
in dawn's misty light or the hot midday sun-
and only a breeze on his back.
He made for the gullies, the rough broken land,
a 'Terror Bird' low in pursuit.
A crewman leaned out with a rifle in hand,
and set himself ready to shoot.
But- then he sat back and, still gazing below,
he smiled as he shook his head, murmuring, 'No.
I couldn't shoot you, mate. No. Go fella! Go!'
And he lifted an arm in salute.
The herd is no longer, the mares and the foals,
all butchered for sale overseas.
No longer to rest by the watering holes
in shade from the sheltering trees.
Or frisk and cavort in the first flush of light,
and kick up their heels in exuberant flight.
The stallion? He wanders by day and by night,
still searching and fretting, for he's....
...Alone in despair now, so sadly alone.
No more to stand guard on the herd,
or mate with mares, or to fight for his own,
to run, to be free as a bird.
Yet he's from a line which had once charged the Boers,
had helped carry troops and drag guns in two wars.
With his death they're finished- and we'll be the cause.
And no one is saying a word.
