TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 255, you were invited to write a poem called Sweeping. Thanks to everyone who managed to overcome the postal hiatus. William Wood got off to an exhilarating start with ‘Take a lurcher to an empty beach.’ Dorothy Pope in red wellies swept down the drygoods aisle in Waitrose. Max Ross shone technically with an acrostic spelling out ‘sweeping change’. Fay Dickinson recalled why, aged six, visiting Father Christmas, she railed against sweeping gender stereotypes. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations going to Neill Roberts.
Four o’clock: time for one last sweep. Down the slope, back across the field, Straining for one distinctive bleep, The detector coaxing land to yield
Something more than a rusty tin, Bent horseshoe, better lost than found. Something to justify dust-baked skin, Refilled holes in the dry-baked ground.
The headphones give a sudden squeak. A second sweep confirms a find. Bag down, spade poised, no need to speak. Dig down, lift up: life, please be kind.
When the dirt is wiped away, I’ve A coin, complete with words and face: ‘Carolus … 1665…’ That year. Scrub my hands. Just in case. Neill Roberts
In dark and mist our light swept to and fro. ‘A pedalo! An orange pedalo! She’s dead for sure. She’s drowned or dead of cold,’ My dad said, as the oily wavelets rolled And slapped our boat. He said, ‘It serves her right, Her stupid parents, too. Slow. Sweep the light. A fool’s game, this. Give up? No, we’ll persist. That orange will show better through the mist.’
Well, we found her: cold, exhausted, half-awake. ‘Poor lass,’ my dad said, as he bent to take Her pulse: ‘It’s strong. She’s come to little harm, Thank God!’ he said. ‘Now we must get her warm. Towels, blankets, tea with brandy in it. I’ll call in to her poor folks in just a minute.’
I’d seen your grandpa suddenly old and grey, Now suddenly young, two ages in one day. Peter Hollindale
She sweeps aside the dressing room’s starred door And, silk gown sweeping the bouquetstacked floor, Sweeps up her hair, sweeps on the base panstick, Then sweeps mascara, rouge and greasepaint thick. Sweeping forth, a sweeping glance she flings On backstage sycophants, sweeps to the wings, Sweeping her palms over her costumed hips, And sweeps on stage, lines sweeping from her lips. Her gaze sweeps gods and circle, box and stall. She sweeps a curtsy, sweeps a kiss to all. She sweeps away congratulations, and Dismisses compliments with sweep of hand. Reaching the dressing room, she sweeps within And sweeps cold cream into her ageswept skin. Clogged cleansing pads into the bin she sweeps, Then, in the mirror, brashly lit, she weeps. Jane Bower
Cinderella, sadly sweeping, Always work and never play, Seldom smiling, often weeping, Dreams her prince will come someday.
Stepmother and ugly sisters Rule with fear the orphaned girl, Faces like enormous blisters, Eyes that threaten, lips that curl.
Seemingly her life is tragic, But, dear reader, she will meet Her Prince Charming, thanks to magic, And he’ll sweep her off her feet.
That’s the way the tale has travelled, Though in truth the prince was gay. Cinderella’s hopes unravelled. All her dreams were swept away. Basil Ransome-davies
COMPETITION No 257 I was recently surprised to encounter a flowering tulip tree in London. So a poem, please, called The Surprising Tree. Maximum 16 lines. Still no entries by post, I’m afraid; please send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address), marked ‘Competition No 257’, by 23rd July.