And the Bronze Quill goes to … Gloria Foreman for her poem …
Skull Springs (Guy Grey Smith 1965)
This varnished flatness
holds a third dimension coded
in its colour.
A mesa blackens its shape in campfire charcoal
shadowed sharply violet.
That grey green curve is mulga.
A sky pale with heat
is bleached the blue of a stockman's jeans
Rust red of rocks and a shimmer of hay gold spinifex
White is a coolness
Of ghost gums
Of fallen feathers floating
Or the murdered bones the wind uncovers in red sand.
The spring's water has no colour.
It borrows colour with its mirror;
Rocks,trees and sky
Twinned in cool pools
This country's bones are pushing through;
bones of sandstone, Jasper, basalt.
Spinifex endures in dry silence
and shade is a flimsy net
But native figs glow green with secret water;
roots fingering down red rock walls
at Skull Springs.
**********
Bronze Quill Runner Up - Madeleine Tingey for her poem …
English Class
Bent over exercise books
laboriously copying each unfamiliar word
these six Moslem women.
Serious scholars from ancient times
from a different dimension
war victims, belonging nowhere.
Pens, unaccustomed utensils,
awkwardly form arcane shapes
fraught with misunderstanding.
The veil sets them apart
tenting their faces
silencing personality
demonising them in Western eyes.
One woman has finished
she glances up, reads hesitantly
'My home is Australia.'
Her veil slips revealing
raven hair loosely tied.
She smiles. Transformed
she could be my daughter.
**********
Highly Commended Poems in no particular order
LOOKING BACK
Who would have thought
in those halcyon days,
that these once nimble limbs
would protest each movement
as though those dancing years
had never been?
Who could have foreseen
we would wish away our lives,
that time once judged too slow
could prove so fleeting?
Who could have imagined it a feat
to turn a dripping tap,
tease toothpaste from a twisted tube,
slide stockings over tired knees?
Who would have guessed
success is measured,
not just by zest, but sadness too?
And who would actually believe
that yesterday's ravers
would ever wish
those days they wished away
were back to stay?
Would you?
by Sally Richardson
Freak Hail Storm
Morning crunched underfoot
trees spun sky into icy mosaics
and the old school bus labored to a halt
its windscreen wipers grinding against glass.
Behind fences sagging with unfamiliar weight
sheep huddle under frosting breath.
In tepid air children huddle
ache to build, to throw, to slide –
games played by legendary children
in legendary lands.
Through spelling, mental arithmetic
river systems, imports and exports,
they watch this unexpected bonus,
fingers crossed against a spoil-sport sun.
Released by the bell they rush
to mash hail into human form;
hunt for pebbles, a stick, someone's cap
until the first stinging missile.
Lunchtime sharp edges blur, smudge,
balls no longer hold shape,
their bite a dampness now.
The afternoon ice man weeps,
slowly shrinks into oblivion.
Sheep have sought higher ground
fences, stripped of their load,
are shadow across drying grass.
Tomorrow will be ordinary.
by Jennifer Langley-Kemp
Brave Molly
The steady plod of solid feet upon the distant sands
where soldiers rest upon their seats, mates guided by their hands
across their backs their rifles slung, not needed at this time
They stand to face the enemy's gun, wait for orders down the line.
And then it comes, "Fall into line!" they swing to line abreast
their horses champing on the wire, this charge will be the test.
For who will hold their courage, their line held on the run
and who will beat the barrage, and charge beneath the guns.
"Fix bayonets!" Comes the call now, metal clinks as this is done,
and now the horses stand there, manes tossing in the sun.
Chestnuts, browns, a dun or two, each tired from the sands,
from walking endless hours to make this final stand.
For water now they're desperate and it spreads beyond the guns,
their life hangs in the balance and for this they make their run.
The captain gives the order and the riders ease the rein,
the horses all move forward, not one of them detained.
They march as one along the sand, picking up the pace,
till Captain shouts the order that starts this final race.
Sand kicks up from the desert, a dust cloud rising high
as the horses gallop freely, to succeed or else to die.
Across the burning desert sands, the soldiers make their run.
The horses bravely galloping, their coats reflecting sun
as bullets whiz and plop around destroying targets large,
as soldiers duck their heads and yell on the Tenth Light Horse last charge
Mick was riding on the flank, his Molly in full flight.
His hands were trembling on the reins when he felt the bullets bite.
The impact knocked him from his horse with a loud resounding whack;
he hit the sand, lay deathly still till Molly trotted back.
She stood with him beneath the sun as the battle raged around,
her body casting shadows over Mick upon the ground.
At times she gently nuzzled him in asking him to rise.
And Mick looked up and blessed her - to him she was a prize.
He'd picked her out some months ago, this roguish chestnut mare,
so wild of eye, she'd challenged him to 'ride me if you dare'.
They had some fights, some breaking of the man, the horse and saddles
till one day she'd agreeably let Mick stay full a-straddle.
Until that time had happened her strength and courage bound
meant sometimes Mick was mounted, the next upon the ground.
Yet something 'bout this chestnut mare, in his heart she held the place,
'tis where he kept those cherished things ... now his fingers stroked her face.
She knickered soft and deeply as her muzzle touched his cheek
as she tried to push him upward but he was quickly growing weak
for the bullets passed right through him and his head was pained and addled
But Molly lay beside him to help him in the saddle.
"Good on you, mate," he told her as he barely swung astride
"We may have had our differences but, girl, you've done me proud,"
And up she stood with Mick aboard and gentle made her tread
Back to the line from whence she came, too late though - Mick was dead.
But Molly Girl was treasured for the role she played that day
in bringing home her Hero from the sand where he had lay
A part of war-time history, the Tenth Light Horse last run
When they charged through hails of bullets in the desert 'neath the sun.
by Helen Iles
In the Stillness
Mt Ainslie. I stand
look over the unique City of Canberra
my focus, Australian War Memorial.
Close now, but still too far away.
The day trip? I can't explain
every time I read one of your post cards
from Somewhere in France, the feeling grew.
The ink fades but you become more real.
The knowing of you Grand-dad
comes from between the lines.
I need to place a scarlet poppy
on the honor roll
next to your name.
One foot on the bottom step - main entrance,
commemorative pool, eternal flame
my heart beats faster.
Above white walls,
arches frame the Roll of Honour
I place the poppy next to your name
take photos, fight back tears.
I have done what I came to do.
As I finger your name
loneliness overpowers -
in the stillness, I recall your words
September 19th, 1917.
'I know you must be lonely,
I can tell you I am
and will be glad
when I can get home with you again.
Now Dear I will close, our big day is tomorrow.
Love to all .... kisses for dear little Edie and Dulcie
not forgetting your Dear self
I am always your own loving hubby William
You expressed pleasure, relief almost,
at receiving three letters from Gran
before going into battle
mention having written
a long letter the day before.
I sensed your apprehension
Did you know somehow
your big day
was to be your last battle.
A soldier pipes the last post
I stand tall -
regret we never met.
by Marlene Fulcher
