Lily and Ben in the 2nd Year have won prizes in the 2020 Charles Causley Young Person’s Poetry Competition. Lily’s poem titled ‘War Garden’ and Ben’s titled ‘The Fox’. There were 278 entries in this competitive category.
Their English teacher, Miss Husband said: ‘I am absolutely delighted to hear that Lily and Ben have won a prize in the 2020 Charles Causley Young Person’s Poetry Competition for their poems, which they wrote and submitted during lockdown. There were 278 entries in her category and to win is a phenomenal achievement. Very well done indeed, Lily and Ben!”
Read them below.
Lily’s ‘War Garden’
Trees are arboreal soldiers,
Standing to attention at the end of the garden.
Holding their woody branch rifles,
Dressed in green camouflage uniforms,
Taking in the energy from the sun.
They want to march on,
To defend the garden battleground next door,
But are rooted deep in the soil,
Never to move once more.
Dark soil filled borders are muddy defensive trenches,
A place thought to offer safety and protection.
Now holding only the remnants of what were bright young saplings,
Cut down before reaching maturity never to reveal their full potential,
They lay there and rot.
Plant pots are gravestones,
Holding the memories of the fallen and keeping secret horrors of war.
Some broken and stained they stand against all weathers as a grim reminder,
Scratched names hinting at the slowly decomposing contents.
Busy insects are nurses,
Fetching and carrying – efficiently clearing debris and mending what they can.
Trying to be caring and gentle they help to restore normality,
Ensuring the regeneration of life from what has gone before,
To make this war garden a little more peaceful and great once more.
Raindrops are parachutes,
Moisture coming to the rescue from above.
Quenching the thirst of the brave soldiers,
They each land safely upon every leaf, washing away the dirt of battle,
Absorbed by parched ground for roots to take nourishment.
New seeds will grow, and life will begin again.
Ben’s ‘The Fox’
The fox is the cunning inside us
the sly sick part,
the bit that we hate to acknowledge,
but it is there haunting you.
The fox is the gloom
Never seen but always there
loud, but silent.
The fox knows and its waiting
Surveying the environment,
Waiting to strike.