Competition

Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 262, you were invited to write a poem called An Annual Task. Lots of good entries, and melancholy came through in most, though it was pleasant to find Tracy Waterman as a tortoise hibernating. Peter Murawski complained, ‘My family love to dress the tree. Who pulls it down? You’ve guessed, that’s me.’ James Lancaster’s narrator visited a singing teacher’s grave. Sheila Keen cleared the gutter, Maggie Mclean looked for the secateurs. 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 Rob Salamon.

My father’s ghost moves down the lawn Beneath a lowering sky, I watch him clearing fallen leaves As autumn hurries by. I still can see his care-worn face, His decency, his love, Though fifty years have passed, and he Now watches from above. Each year I sweep and burn the leaves, A blessed autumn chore, I follow in his footsteps Where he swept before. The leaves which first appeared in spring At close of year will die, And sons will follow fathers When autumn hurries by. Rob Salamon

Each weighty metal drawer slides on its own slowness, Its heaviness hinting, like a cow unmilked. I tug and lug the bowed and bulging files, Leaf through the papers, finger ends smoothed numb. Fine paper cuts slice cross-hatched, wincing stings. Piled paper weight stands sliding on the floor, Each file’s load lightened, slipped slim in its slot. I set the fire pit, coax from logs a flame. Feeding sheets in singly, piecemeal, then Push to the roar the hefty, half-curled sheaf – Another log, from trees that lived and grew – And watch a year of words, a year of life Crinkle away, important briefly, once, Melting to a grey wasps’ nest of ash Soft-edged in fragile, fringed vermilion glow. As I, important briefly, once, will go. Jane Bower

This is an annual task, I have to take The tattered tinsel from the bookcase shelves, Remove the lights that decked the plastic tree And roll them up. If only there were elves To do this job, untangle wires to fit Inside their cardboard box. The fairy who Inhabits the top branch is getting old And shabby, but I know she’ll have to do,

So goes back in the box with holly sprigs And baubles that have moved from house to house. Then I have to sort the cards to see Which ones I want to keep. A glittery mouse Which got left out last year needs packing too. I stare at all this junk and quietly say ‘Shall I bin it all, and get some new?’ But it’s my history, and has to stay. Katie Mallett

The summer clothes are soft and light, and hang in rows in shades of white And pastel blue and sugar pink, and many more. But now I think It’s time to put them all away, for they won’t see the light of day Till next year comes and I, hooray! can take a summer holiday. So slowly introduced have been the warmer jumpers, long unseen, And heavier jeans and jolly socks, and thermals lifted from their box, While winter boots with laces loose, and woolly hats, in greys and puce Fill up the cupboards while I fold long floating scarves, and heaps of old And faded T-shirts which I should cut up, to do the compost good. Last, winter coats in sober hues slot in, some black, some navy blues, And then I stop arranging gear. It’s dealt with, for another year. G M Southgate

COMPETITION No 264 Singing outdoors is a pleasure – so give us a Spring Song (to a well-known tune – please mention what it is). Maximum 16 lines. We still cannot accept any entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by email (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 264’, by 11th February.