Competition Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 260, you were invited to write a poem called Shoulder to Shoulder. Tears came to my eyes often as I read your entries. Bill Holloway’s couple in a hospital lavatory was especially moving. Tim Lloyd’s narrator recalled a rugby-scrum friend: ‘As I carried his coffin it did cross my mind, / We were shoulder to shoulder, one last time.’ Congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary of Great Quotations being shouldered by Alan Pentecost.

Masked, aproned and exhausted. But my friends. For I have grasped their presence through the fog Of intellectual dissonance and haze Of travel in a wilderness of days.

And now they’re clapping me who only was An object of their love particulate, Recipient of their patient artistry. Their world… But now they’re clapping me!

Repayment is impossible although Nothing I would give could be too great, No recompense sufficient as a fee. And now I find that they are clapping me!

I’m in a wheelchair passing through their ranks. And still they are applauding, me to greet. To welcome me, who should be giving thanks. Instead I celebrate our joint estate! Alan Pentecost

November days of bleak renown When beasts were slain and salted down, When seamen drew their boats aground, When Pushkin’s tedious season frowned. Come Thomas Hood and vent your scorn (No shade, no shine, no noon, no morn) On month of popish plot and blood, On month of gale and fog and flood. November when the wind is raw, Men, side by side, remember war, As widows weep and strangers hug, As politicians scowl and shrug. I walked out on an autumn day Across the dazzling Sandlings bay, My newborn grandson sweetly smiled; Grow old, grow old, November’s child. Peter Davies

Prickling, warm with nerves and lights we perch, Flushed necks, conflicting fragrances, bathed skin,

Trembling earrings, long black sleeves and skirts. Discreet throat-clearing, subtly proffered mints, Moist fingers placing glasses, checking scores. Hands clap a rainstorm welcome, out he strides, Transformed from jeans to tailcoat, baton raised. Two hundred flat black shoes are planted firm. We rise, as we have done for thirty years – Watching hair grow grey and lines define – In halls, cathedrals, churches hot and cold. Shoulder to shoulder we have practised, learned, Complained, and laughed, and pencilled Cresc or Dim, And sung, sung glory, sung with unmasked soul Until this year. Piano, hall and chairs Distanced from sound, and sanitised of song. Jane Bower

‘The war effort now needs more land under the plough. Whoa there, Madge! Come on, Dolly. Look smart! Govn’r says we’ll begin on long meadow today, So let’s get you both harnessed and start.’

The field at last reached and, hitched up to the plough, The pair set off with purpose and power; Straining, shoulder to shoulder they turn the hard earth, Trudging back and forth, hour after hour.

A quick nosebag for lunch and it’s back to the job, Slow progress; the ground’s heavy and tough. It’s raining now, windy, everyone’s getting tired; The light’s failing. Says the ploughman ‘Enough.’

A long trek takes them home for warmth, shelter and rest And some grooming by eager young men. ‘That was hard, well done girls, aye, just champion; But tomorrow we do it again.’ David Jeans

COMPETITION No 262 A poem, please, called An Annual Task. Maximum 16 lines. Still no entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your own postal address), marked ‘Competition No 262’, by 6th December.