Competition

IN COMPETITION No 266, you were invited to write a poem with the title Stones. Lots of excellent entries, as in all the recent, strange months. I laughed at Peter Wyton’s lines on megaliths: ‘How did they roll these great big stones up here/and put them into such precise position,/without sophisticated lifting gear/or evidence of government permission?’ Fay Dickinson, like others, celebrated the long-lived band, and gave us the couplet ‘I tell you, man, I’ve had spliffs that disappoint,/but my left hip’s a really cracking joint.’ John A Williams began with the enticing lines ‘All milkman’s stones are humble stones./ They sit on front doorsteps.’ Mike Morrison lamented gallstones, and John Prendergast’s Lament of the Torrey Canyon (beginning ‘I think I’ve broken my back’) put the blame on the Reef of the Seven Stones. Ted Lane found that ‘taking care of the pounds/the stones take care of themselves’. Peter Hollindale’s narrator, pondering the work of faith’s artisans, decides to ‘stretch my hand to them, and lift the latch’. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to Daphne Lester.

What does the wall know?

My lovely, eight-foot, limestone garden wall Facing due west into the sinking sun; Those autumn colours suit it best of all, But can it tell that day is nearly done?

Do rambler roses tickle it or scratch? Can it feel heat against its patchwork face? And when I garden in the plot below, Can it deduce this is my favourite place?

When baby wrens it shelters start their cheeping, And next door children, trampolining high, Bounce right above it, shouting me a greeting, Can it enjoy the same delight as I?

What do I know?

My stone wall gives me strength But keeps its counsel. Daphne Lester

Stones huge as moons can yet strike any planet

That goes around the sun. Even a giant Like Jupiter’s at risk. So what of Earth, Our tiny water world, where there’s no dearth Of plants and ants and people, all reliant On Gaia’s bounty and on utter luck? Our solar home, since gravity began it, Has lived through impacts thoroughly stupendous, Which made the Earth and Moon – yet still could end us. Comet Shoemaker-levy 9 had struck A whopper world, witnessed by humankind. July of ’94. A wake-up call. A punch in the gut! Colossal comet bits The size of mountains gored that gassy ball Which gulped them in its atmospheric rind. Let’s scan the skies round Earth before one hits! Martin Elster

Ripe cherries in a bowl, and I can still Recall those stones, and spitting as a sport: A test of pulmonary strength and skill, Those youthful contests, vigorously fought. Across the garden’s space our missiles sped, Some cleared the patio, some reached the fence – The winner soundly hit the garden shed; The competition raged, the mood was tense…

Remembering the cherry-stone Grand Prix, I longed to visit our old stamping ground; Since many years have passed, I hoped to see An orchard full of blossom – yet I found No signs of germination or rebirth; For, like our childhood dreams and our ambition, The stones that landed on that fertile earth, Alas, had also failed to reach fruition. Sylvia Fairley

COMPETITION No 268 The civil war against graffiti continues, I find. Please write a poem, on any theme, with the title Writing on the Wall. 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 268’, by 3rd June.