The Caretaker of Faithful Hill Cemetery by Vicki Hann

Stolen by Sophie Eyer

My Friend Krumbelutska by Esther Mathey

The Sea Girl by Natasha Tzu Yau Chan

EngineIstein’s (Engine-I-stein) Big Day by Cara Meler

Thalassophile by Cindy Pasin

A Change of Heart by Catherine Lee

Knock Knock by Oscar Marks

Then and Now by Alishaa Dogra

The Mermaid by Elysia Woo

The Caretaker of Faithful Hill Cemetery

Vicki Hann

Winner Adult Prose

They called him the Caretaker.   It was a standing joke among the work crew employed by the Cemetery Trust.  Whoever was sent to do the monthly maintenance at the Faithful Hill Cemetery would be asked the same questions.  ‘Did you see the Caretaker?’  ‘In his favourite spot was he?’  And any new employees would be warned, ‘Watch out for the Caretaker!’  Those in the know would laugh and pat the newbie on their shoulder and say, ‘It’s still warm, so he’ll be about.  Might even have his new coat on.’  And there would be more laughing at the confused look on the face of the newbie.  But all would be explained, because in this day and age of occupational health and safety, no one would risk being responsible for a fellow worker being bitten by an almost two metre long black snake.  Or falling over backwards with fright, when the snake reluctantly uncurled itself and slithered off the sun warmed granite slab, laying atop the remains of Hepzibah Goodman – beloved wife and devoted mother.

      There was much debate among the groundsmen about the actual length of the Caretaker.  Much confusion as well because the older, on the cusp of retirement men, only talked in terms of feet.  Five and a half feet, six feet, six and a half feet.  The younger employees claimed lengths up to 180 centimetres.   No one was totally accurate.  The Caretaker was 185 centimetres, just over six feet.   And he was a Brown Snake, an Eastern Brown, with a shiny black coat and a creamy underbelly.  Eastern Browns come in many variations but coming upon the Caretaker unexpectedly, meant no one ever took too much notice of the colour of his belly.  To the work crew however, if a snake looked black, it was a Black Snake, end of discussion.  As to the Caretaker’s length and sex, that conversation often occupied most of the forty minute drive from the depot in the regional town to the location of Faithful Hill, still claiming to be a town, but now not much more than a locality, where two minor roads intersected.  In justifying their belief that the Caretaker was a male, the senior workers claimed never to have seen any juvenile snakes at the cemetery or any evidence of eggs.  Neither did they ever see any other snakes, proving, in their opinion, that the Caretaker was a territorial male.  They did however, come upon his shedded skins, in the early autumn, in the previous two years.   Over those two years, while there was a definite mutual wariness between the humans and the reptile, the work crews had adopted a somewhat proprietorial ‘live and let live’ attitude toward the snake. 

     The township of Faithful Hill had been named after the short lived gold mine that sprang up there in the early 1860’s.  And, as with many Australian gold strikes, once the gold petered out, most of the already rootless inhabitants moved on.  Usually down the road to where the next strike was.  But some people, whether by necessity or choice, remained behind and towns were born.    Two hotels were built, diagonally opposite each other at the crossroad.  The first was a plain, single story dwelling and as the local farming community prospered, a second hotel was built, two stories, with a balcony, and so elaborate that specialized tradesmen had to be bought in.   A hundred and fifty years later, with a few intervening hiccups, the single story hotel was still open six days a week.  The bigger hotel had been boarded up for decades, because bigger and more elaborate meant more maintenance, more overheads and, as the final owner was also left to discover, the horrors of Heritage Overlay.   

     Other businesses and occupations went the same way, until eventually, over the course of time, every one of the banks and commercial businesses that had endured Faithful Hill’s economic ups and downs, closed their doors for the final time.  Cars still pulled up outside the former milk bar and takeaway.  From a distance the signs for soft drinks and icecreams looked promising.  But on closer inspection the newspaper pasted windows showed otherwise.  The dates on the newspaper read two thousand and one, so people still paused to tilt their heads and read about what was happening twenty years earlier.    Then they would wander down the main street, pointing out the embossed signage on the long vacant buildings across the road.  Established 1884, that sort of thing. 

      Amateur genealogists, wondering about their forebears, came looking for the Faithful Hill Cemetery.   Clearly, in the past, there had been some affluence among the people who called Faithful Hill home.  Perhaps it went back to a lucky strike during the gold era but more likely it was the result of long years of physical labour.   Because even among the tilted, broken, indecipherable and lichen covered headstones, there were some that had stood the test of time.  Grey granite and marble headstones were adorned with symbols of the deceaseds’ lives.  There were Celtic crosses of intricate design, the occasional scotch thistle, a ship’s anchor, a broken column to indicate a life cut short.  And lots of angels.  Many visitors would wonder at the profusion of angels.  Until they observed the profusion of childrens’ graves.  Most poignant though, were the headstones bearing the epitaph of ‘gone but not forgotten’.   True when they were erected, but now………..?  Perhaps the genealogists will come looking for them one day.

     If the Faithful Hill Cemetery had ever had the traditional grid patterned layout, which it probably did, the formal pathways had mostly vanished, especially in the older section near the road.  Uneven gravel tracks now rambled over the subterranean remains of long forgotten early settlers.   Directly opposite the entry gate where the path dissected left and right, was a date palm, which rumour had it was planted at the end of the Second World War.  Because it had never produced dates, there was occasional speculation among the workers whether it actually was a date palm.   The groundsmen had to have something to talk about as they chipped away at weeds.   Cemeteries can be a good place to see old trees.   Away on their own, in an area that had never been filled in with graves, were two thick trunked English Elms whose upper branches intermingled and caste a refreshing shade during the warmer months.  More than once, a fainting mourner had been assisted over to their welcome respite. Were they the result of optimistic town planners?  Hard to believe they just grew there, like the peppercorn trees that straggled the boundary fences.  Beyond the wire fences the farmers grew grain crops and with the grain came mice and the collapsing graves in the cemetery provided countless shelters for the mice.  And the mice provided countless meals, for the Caretaker. 

     And even though it was a place where many tears had been shed and the very atmosphere should have been heavy with sorrow, it wasn’t.   For to arrive at the Faithful Hill Cemetery, on a mild autumn morning with the sun sending faint shafts of light through the drifting mist, and the pink and green peppercorns hung in glistening dew drop clusters and the English Elms dusted the ground with their own gold, could not help but generate a fresh appreciation, of life.  And the genealogists seeking old family names, or the slightly lost tourist wanting to stretch their legs, would emerge from their vehicles and perhaps pull out a thermos of hot coffee and pour a cup, before setting out to wander the pathways.

     But if you were there too long and morning drifted into afternoon and the Caretaker felt the need to warm his body, he would emerge from the cracks at the base of Hepzibah Goodman’s gravesite and make a short patrol around his territory, tasting the air for the scent of lizards or mice or members of his own species and paying no attention to the humans.  Eventually though, one of the humans would glimpse that glossy black body and let out a squeal and make a beeline for their car.  And once again, almost as though the preceding century and a half had not even eventuated, tranquility would settle on the slope of the hill where humans left their final mark and inadvertently provided a perfect habitat, for the Caretaker of Faithful Hill Cemetery. 

Stolen

Sophie Eyer

Winner Young Adult Prose

Once upon a time, in a far desert land, where barren plains of fiery red earth swept the endless horizon, where sparse collections of stark and brittle flora, barely alive, fought for nutrients deep in the arid, infertile soil. Isolated in the desert, there lived an old witch. Witches were deeply feared by all as they were known to possess powers that were beyond explanation. The old witch’s skin was wrinkled and icy; her eyes were deep and hollow. She lived in a tower that looked as though it could touch the sun. Her tower gleamed in the sunshine. Fresh and inviting roses lining the tower’s pristine white walls. The witch had always wished for children of her own; however, she could never conceive. She longed for the presence of a child and companionship. Loneliness consumed her in her tall desolate tower.

Rapunzel loved the feeling of combing the desert’s red soil through her fingers. She loved the feeling of the wind as the earth breathed. The Elders of her family had always taught her that if she took care of the land, the land would take care of her. She had learned to read the stars for directions and hear the tree’s whispers; her heart intertwined with the land that surrounded her. Rapunzel’s hair was thick and unruly like tree roots; her skin was warm and soft her earthy brown eyes glimmered with an indescribable deepness. She was often responsible for caring for her brothers and sisters when her parents were busy. Rapunzel adored the excitement in her sibling’s eyes when she told them the stories and secrets of the land she loved.

One night, Rapunzel lay in bed, her mind overflowing with magical dreams of the approaching rains of the upcoming season of Makuru. The mechanical chirping of a cluttering vehicle tore her from her projections and sprung her out of bed. Thudding footsteps got louder and louder until, finally, the moon lit up the face of a pale and slender woman standing over her. Rapunzel’s desperate eyes peered behind her, looking for reassurance instead meeting the helpless glossy eyes of her mother. The witch warned Rapunzel’s family with the expanse of the witch coven’s powers, reassuring Rapunzel that she would treat her as her own. Rapunzel knew the power of the desert witches, and so did her family. With hardly seconds for farewells, Rapunzel was abruptly ripped from her world and locked into the witch’s foreign machine, its clanking and cluttering infecting the desert’s evening ensemble.

The witch held Rapunzel in the tower, teaching her the rules of witchery and womanhood – cooking, cleaning, and the importance of a tidy appearance. The witch was kind and caring, nothing like Rapunzel expected. She wasn’t an evil witch like many of the others. The witch truly believed she was taking in Rapunzel as an orphan, saving her from the treacherous desert sands. “Rapunzel put up your hair!” she would say. Rapunzel’s hair was wild and expressive, unlike the desert witches’ tame, straight hair. Seeing Rapunzel with her hair down taunted the witch, reminding her of the horrible life Rapunzel must have lived, as a nomad in the desert, that confronted her so profoundly. In the witch’s eyes, Rapunzel had been deprived of the life that every young woman deserves. She needed Rapunzel and truly believed that to live properly, Rapunzel needed her. She cared for Rapunzel. She loved Rapunzel.

After many years trapped in the tower, with the witch, and endless hours of teachings, Rapunzel began to forget her past. Unknown to Rapunzel, the desert witches feared Rapunzel’s power even more than she feared the power of the witches. This made the witch’s heart race as she knew the witches were becoming increasingly sceptical of Rapunzel’s ability to be “saved from her family’s ways”. So, every day, the witch gave Rapunzel a rich purple flower masked by the vibrant arrays of fruit from her garden she prepared for Rapunzel each morning. The flower had the power to twist nature, fading Rapunzel’s ability to remember her identity, which she had gathered from her long line of ancestors. She had no choice but to accept the witch as her mother and gracefully cover her hair when she was told. She never truly felt the feeling of belonging within the witch community but eventually forgot what it felt like to belong entirely. Despite her struggle to remember her family. They had never forgotten her. Each night they roamed the endless desert in search of Rapunzel, looking to the stars in hopes of a sign that they might see Rapunzel again.

More years passed. The witch became older and older. She became weak. Rapunzel tenderly nursed her. Rapunzel’s heart yearned for her ill mother, with whom she had so many memories. Lonely and confused, Rapunzel instinctively looked to the stars for answers. The stars. She hadn’t looked at the stars for so many years, their significance buried away.

Her heart and eyes were gently held by the wonder of the stars that showered upon the tower, pulling her erased memories from the earth and returning them to where they belonged. Everything came back to her like showering rain soaking into her skin. Her family. The witch.

Her soul intertwined with the earth once again. Her heart suddenly filled with homesickness and uncertainty. All the memories and all the time she had spent with the witch were distorted. Her face flushed, her eyes becoming red and sore. The witch had betrayed Rapunzel, stealing her memories and trapping her in the tall tower where she never belonged. Rapunzel knew the witch was doing what she thought was best. Questions about the witch and her true family flooded her mind. Overwhelmed and afraid, she knew she needed to find home.

She fled the tower and ran into the desert. The sand pushed against her feet, helping her to run faster. She followed the stars and the whispers of the trees. The red soil fuelled her with strength. She ran and ran.

And then she saw it, a smoke fire. The smell of ashy eucalyptus comforted her as she continued to run. A group of figures appeared in the distance.

An unfamiliar voice desperately exclaimed, “Please, witch, don’t come here!”

Rapunzel had forgotten the scarf that concealed her unbroken, untamed curls. She quickly tore the scarf off, no longer burdened by the witches’ beliefs. She couldn’t hate the witch; she knew she wasn’t evil but could never forgive her for stealing her childhood.

As soon as she reached the family, they embraced her. They held her tight; they had lost their own children to the witches. Although Rapunzel was not their own, she was a child of the desert. She had been so alone for so long without even knowing.

Isolated in the tower, she could never grasp what she was missing, but now she knew. She needed the soil between her toes, the land under her feet and the trees above her, and most importantly, the embrace of her people and, more importantly, her family.

Rapunzel’s family, like many others, lay awake awaiting a miracle.

My Friend Krumbelutska

Esther Mathey (12 years)

Winner Junior Prose

The sky was grey the day that I met her. The wind howled and the cold air chilled me
to the bone. Sand lashed against my ankles and the waves were crashing and
roaring and seething with anger. But being out here was better than being inside. In
my house, where there was roaring and crashing and angry seething louder than the
waves could manage, and howling and lashing and  coldness that chilled me more
than the cold outside.They were arguing again. But the next day I knew it would be
sunny and bright and safe, at least for a while. The bad weather never lasted long,
but for now it was better to stay away.

As I walked across the beach it began to drizzle, and the rain mingled with my tears.
Finally I reached it. My favourite rock. I ran my hands over the rough grainy surface,
then reached for the first handhold and climbed to the top. When I got there, I buried
my face in my hands and rocked back and forth, sobbing. I must have been shaking
very hard, because now it felt like the rock itself was moving. In fact, I was sure the
rock was moving. I took my hands away from my face, but the rock was sitting
perfectly ordinarily on the sand. Shaken, I scrambled back down and looked around.
The rock had moved. I was sure of it. Only slightly, but it had.

My eyes wide, I took a step backwards. Maybe somebody had moved the rock.
Somebody strong. “Hello?” I said tentatively. “Is anybody there?” There was no
answer but the howling wind. My heart hammering in my chest, I looked back at my
house on the edge of the sand. Then I heard a crunch. Frozen with terror, I didn’t
dare to look behind me. I suddenly found my legs again, and bolted. I didn’t stop
running until I was in my house with the door slammed shut behind me.

That night I lay in bed, my face buried in my pillow in an attempt to block out the
noise. The weather had worsened, both inside and out. But I did not make my usual
escape to the beach. Not even this was scarier than the beach. But as the indoor
storm raged on, even the beach seemed comforting. I got out of bed and walked to
the window. The empty silence of the beach was very appealing. All I had to do was
stay away from the rock. I scrambled out my window onto the soft wet sand. 

As I stood on the beach it began to rain and I looked over at my rock. I just couldn’t
keep away! I ran across the sand towards it, then rubbed my cheek against it, tears
squeezing out of my closed eyes. I seemed to feel the rock shift beneath me. I was
crying so hard that my pyjama top was drenched with tears. Wait. Those weren’t my
tears! Slowly my eyes opened. There was a stone eye staring at me, tears streaming
from it. I jumped back. “Don’t be afraid.”said a mouth that had newly appeared. “ I
won’t hurt you. I am Krumbelutska, the mother of all rocks!”

Krumbelutska stood up and shook herself off. She was a huge knobbly creature with
a crooked smiling mouth. I fell backwards onto the damp sand, trembling with shock
and fear. “I didn’t know rocks could cry.” I blurted before I could stop myself. It was a
silly thing to say, and my cheeks burned. Krumbelutska seemed unphased. “Of
course we can,” she laughed. “Our tears created the sea.” I shuffled forwards,
curiosity beginning to override my fear. “Yes,” she said. “Our sandstone friends were
crushed and our tears made up the sea.” She stood in deep thought for a moment, then barreled towards me and scooped me onto her stone back. She bounded across the beach and I laughed, delighted.

Finally Krumbelutska came to my bedroom window. I climbed back into my bed. The
storm seemed to be over now, and all was quiet and still. “It is safe now.”
Krumbelutska smiled. “But next time it isn’t, just come to me. After all, I will always
be there. I don’t have much choice, do I?” Then she lumbered away. I snuggled
down under my covers, my cheeks flushed with happiness. I visited Krumbelutska every time things got bad. Now it is always sunny, even when the weather outside is not. I still visit Krumbelutska. After all, she is always there. She doesn’t have much choice, does she?

The Sea Girl

Natasha Tzu Yau Chan (10 years)

Winner Primary Prose

Nestled between towering cliffs and crystal-clear waters was a hidden underwater world filled with colours and creatures so beautiful that they enchanted anyone who saw them. Lily, with her carefree spirit and love for the ocean, spent most of her days exploring the rugged coastline and sandy beaches. The water was a second home to her, and she dove into the waves with joy, marveling at the way the light danced off the surface of the water.

As Lily swam deeper into the underwater world, she noticed a group of dolphins swimming in the distance. They were jumping and playing, seeming to welcome her. One of them swam closer to her, vocalising and touching her with its nose.

“Wow, you guys are amazing, ” Lily said, grinning from ear to ear. “I had no idea that dolphins could communicate like this. It’s like we’re having our own little conversation.”

The dolphins clicked and whistled in response. Lily felt a connection to these creatures, realising that they were more intelligent and complex than she had ever imagined. The dolphins swam near Lily and led her to the coral. Lazy sea turtles paddled through the clear water with their wide, ancient eyes, and schools of shimmering fish darted around. As she swam deeper, she saw a glint of gold in the distance. She reached it; it was a treasure chest covered in barnacles and seaweed, beckoning her to open it.

After opening the treasure chest and discovering its contents, Lily swam back to the surface where she was greeted by a group of fishermen who had just returned from a day’s catch.

“Hey, Lily, what did you discover down there?” one of the fishermen asked, his gruff voice carrying over the waves.

“I found a treasure chest filled with jewels and diamonds,” Lily replied. “But more importantly, I discovered a hidden underwater world full of wonders and creatures that need to be protected.”

The fishermen weren’t listening, instead, they eyed Lily with greed. They had heard about the treasure and wanted it for themselves.

“Hey, give us that treasure, its ours!” one of the fishermen yelled as they advanced towards her.

Lily felt a sense of panic wash over her. She knew that the fishermen wouldn’t hesitate to use force to get what they wanted. But before she could react, a group of sea creatures appeared out of nowhere, surrounding her and the treasure chest. The creatures included a giant octopus. a school of colourful fish, and even the dolphins she had met earlier. They formed a protective circle around Lily, their eyes lashing with determination.

“You won’t get away with this!” the octopus said, his deep voice carrying over the water. “This treasure belongs to the ocean, and we won’t let you harm it or Lily.” The giant octopus lashed out its tentacles, sending the fishermen reeling. The dolphins swam circles around them, making it difficult to get close to Lily.

The fishermen were undeterred, and they soon regrouped, coming up with a new strategy. one of the fishermen pulled out a large net and cast it over the sea creatures, trapping them inside. The sea creatures thrashed and fought against the net, but they were overpowered by the fishermen’s strength.

The fishermen began to attack the sea creatures, using their fishing poles as weapons. ily felt a sense of desperation wash over her as she watched the brutal scene unfold. She knew she had to do something to stop the fishermen and save the sea creatures.

With a burst of energy, she swam towards the net, using all her strength to tear it open. The sea creatures burst out, free at last. They rallied around Lily, forming a protective circle around her once again.

The fishermen were taken aback by the sudden turn of events. They had never seen anything like it before and realised that they were no match for the powerful creatures.

“Let’s get out of here,” one of the fishermen said as they quickly swam away.

“Thank you all so much,” Lily said to the creatures, tears of gratitude welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The creatures responded with clicks, whistles, and flashes of colour, seeming to understand her words. She knew that the ocean was a precious resource that needed to be protected, and she was willing to do whatever it took to ensure its safety.

The treasure chest remained a symbol of Lily’s determination to preserve the ocean’s beauty and wonder for generations to come, and she knew that the real treasure was the healthy and vibrant ecosystem. She would always be ready to defend against those who sought to harm the sea.

EngineIstein’s (Engine-I-stein) Big Day

Cara Meler (8 years)

Winner Junior Primary Prose

Engineistein was a small boy who was shy but kind and neat.

One day his Mum went out to collect the mail usually it’s just bills or advertisements, not this time. “Engineistein there is a letter for you” his Mum called out. Engineistein walked over confused and surprised. His mum handed him the letter as he thanked her in a mumbling voice. It read:

Dear Little Engineistein,
You have been invited to the most unusual names
competition. If you have a great story about your
name you will win a prize – a $100 gift card!
Sincerely,
The Past Prime Minister Mr Ezdonald

His mum read more about the competition, the only chance they had to go was next Sunday, in two days’ time. He asked his mum if he could go.

“It’s not up to me to decide to go or not, it’s up to you” his mum said.

“Ok yes I agree, my decision” said Engineistein nodding.

“I would do it if I were you” his mum said “You’re a big boy now you go out there and tell your story!”
Every day Engineistein practised his speech, he was really nervous and excited. Then the competition came around the whole family drove to the local hall. While they were driving, suddenly the car broke down in the middle of the road!

Luckily his dad was an engineer so he was able to fix the car. Engineistein was more worried but soon they were back on track. They hopped in the car and drove straight to the competition and they were late. But Engineistein was just in time, he ran to his seat.

“Please welcome our next contestant ench… engi… engis… never mind, contestant number eight” said the announcer. The spotlight shone on him. All of a sudden his knees were shaking, his face was red, his eyes were watering – he had stage fright! He reminded himself that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t win as long as he tried his best. He started his speech.

“My dad was always into cars because he is an engineer so when I was born my dad wanted to call me ENGINE. My mum said ‘Engine is not a proper name, we can’t call our son that!’ However, I was clever enough to say no Mama, yes Dada! My mum was so surprised she laughed and said ‘we have a little Einstein, he is so smart and clever.’ My Dad said ‘we can just squish those names together and it will be Engineistein…and that’s my story!”

At the end of the competition the announcer went onto the stage to thank everyone for coming and to announce the winners of the competition.

“A big well done to all of our contestants, in third place we have ClippidyClopClap Junior, in second place Squillibupdoo and congratulations to Engineistein in first place!”

Engineistein gave his parents a big hug and thanked them for giving him an unusual and amazing name.

Thalassophile

Cindy Pasin

Winner: Open Poetry

Jagged lightning strikes the sky
in a dark behemoth sea
howling wind snaps the sail,
which joins the gale in raging flight.

In the dark behemoth sea
alarming swell of vast expanse
showering briny stinging salt,
to whip the hands upon the deck.

Alarming swell of vast expanse
propels the sloop through ocean swell
shooting swiftly to the shore,
pushing with incessant force.

Propels the sloop through ocean swirl
crashing with tremendous speed
breaking up in splintered shards,
on the sea wall near the beach.

Crashing with tremendous speed
floating flotsam swept ashore
on the crest of white-capped waves
spewing treasures from the deep.

Floating flotsam swept ashore
fragments of a sailing sloop
twirling around in foaming spit,
resting now on sandy beach.

Among the seaweed and the sand
smooth sea glass and cowrie shells,
the thalassophile wanders by the shore
and gathers planks of splintered wood.

A Change of Heart

Catherine Lee

Winner: Bush Poetry

The Northern Lights shone eerily that bitter, frigid night
and winter winds came blustering to penetrate and bite.
With snow predicted up the tops I wasn’t feeling cheered;
my Doona, Ugg boots, Driz-a-Bone had swiftly reappeared.
The campfire’s merry crackling was at least a heartening sound,
its dancing flames illuminated shadows all around,
creating an enchanting ambience that emphasized
a sense of timeless beauty, whilst the heavens mesmerised.
Reflecting on my sordid task, I skulled another beer -
the job I’d picked up recently with orders crystal clear.

‘They’re pests and just destroy the land, it’s true without a doubt.
Just shoot ‘em, mate, don’t muck around - we need to wipe ‘em out!’
The troop would gather in the dawn; for now, was only three -
just Billy Smith and Big Red Murphy, Bob Kincaid and me.
I really hadn’t wanted this repugnant ugly job,
yet needed cash, so grudgingly accepted it from Bob.
My mettle would be tested, I was pushed to see it through;
despite my qualms I braced myself for what I had to do.
Some say they threaten wildlife, wreck the rivers and the plain,
while others say they’re scapegoats, we should let them all remain….

A sudden movement through the trees revealed two eyes of brown!
I reached towards my weapon while I tried to stare him down.
But something stayed my hand because he didn’t try to run,
just held my gaze as if to force my focus from the gun.
Unlikely though it sounds, he seemed perceptive and serene -
most regal and impressive beast I thought I’d ever seen.
Then gradually I realised that he was not alone;
at least six others stood behind, their bodies still as stone.
The brumbies’ hides were coated with a sheen of silver frost.
My finger stayed the trigger as I counted up the cost.

The sight they made was magical, held frozen there in time;
annihilating such a gift of nature seemed a crime.
Big Red was wild. He swore and hissed, ‘That’s not the way it’s done!
A sitting target. Get your act together - fire that gun!’
I couldn’t do it. Sorrow filled my very soul with shame
I’d ever thought to add the act of culling to my name.
I fixed him with defiant stare and knew I’d not obey.
‘I tell you I won’t do it mate; I don’t care what you say.
These beasts aren’t hurting anyone, such slaughter can’t be right;
a sanctuary would make a better answer to their plight.’

I held the horse’s eyes in almost mystical commune,
at peace within the moment underneath the gibbous moon.
My choice was made. Some things are worth far more than just a buck.
I held my breath, esteeming his magnificence and pluck.
Then suddenly he dipped his head and shook his silvered mane -
a burst of frosty spray appeared like glistening drops of rain.
He turned towards the others in a signal to retreat;
they followed his command as he exhaled and stamped his feet.
My admiration knew no bounds, this vision so impressed,
that deep within my spirit came conviction I‘d been blessed.

Knock Knock

Oscar Marks

Winner: Young Adult Poetry

Climate change is knocking at the door
I can see it
I can hear it
I can smell it
I can feel it

Waking up to smoke in the air
Red skies
Ash falling
Darkness, no more sun
It’s an apocalypse

Fire on the horizon
Evacuate now, evacuate now
Trees crashing down on top of roads
Animals escaping, just like us

Breaking news
Millions dead yesterday, today, tomorrow
Another bushfire
Another melting glacier
Another flood

Riverbanks bursting
Water rising fast
Higher and higher
Knock knock
The door is underwater

Houses lost to water
Precious things lost to water
Lives lost to water
Millions of dollars lost to water
And all because no one is making change

Roads become rivers
It’s a boat if your lucky
Or climb up on the roof
And hope for help

A landscape transformed
When the waters subside
A wasteland around us
Whole lives washed away

Landslide, mud
Piles of wet belongings
Insurance too expensive
Savings gone

Knock Knock
On a dry dusty door
Shades of brown
Thirsty ground

No more water
Rivers become roads
Piles of dusty dirty belongings
Animals skin and bones

Ground cracking
Drought aging the earth
Wrinkling the face of home
All she wants is rain

The skin blistering
Heat records broken
We’re being slowly cooked
Not enough people have been awoken

Freak events are no surprise
Happening too often
Every hundred years
Is how it used to be

Politicians on the news
Talking sound bites
Too little too late
We have taken the bait

People in power will do anything to stay there
Saying one thing
Doing another
Lining their pockets with fossil fuel dollars
Influencing decisions
To not keep it in the ground

Our future is what matters
But they don’t see this
They’re fossils in their thinking
Not wanting change

We need to change the system
No more small changes
We need an earth to live on in the future

Wake up
Time is running out
It’s not their future
It’s ours

I’m scared, I’m mad
I’m disappointed, I’m enraged
Knock Knock
It's disaster at the door

Then and Now

Alishaa Dogra (11 years)

Winner: Junior Poetry

The forest looks calm
at first glance
But when I look again
I see more
I see a whole story
Another world

Trees seem older than time
Wisest of us all
As they stand strong and fine
Their leaves forming a canopy, a natural shelter
with sunlight stealing in through the gaps

Vines dangle down
to the moist forest floor
Ants scurrying here and there
doing their duties on that peaceful day once more

A deer stares with its great big eyes
calling for calm
The soothing melody of nature ringing in my ears
The creek glistens like diamonds
where the sunlight falls
Reeds grow out of the water
standing tall

The stony path
chipped and mossy
Hard to imagine what it was like when first made
spotless and glossy

But time is cunning
snailing when you want it to speed
speeding when you want it to snail
and the changes it brings
leaving you speechless

With a sigh
I put the picture of the forest back in the draw
It seemed mythical
It seemed like magic
that 25 years ago
Instead of
cars and trucks driving with a roar
blaring horns
smoke-spitting factories
the harsh road with litter flying around
there was greenery all around
There was that deer in that calm forest

But that was then, and this is now.

The Mermaid

Elysia Woo (4 years)

Winner: Junior Primary Poetry

A mermaid was swimming
Around the sea
And then she found
Another mermaid- me!
Then we played 
Catch and tips
Until we found 
A wooden ship.
And then we found
Some treasure box
And on the box 
There were some locks.
And then we found
The little key-
We put it in
There was jewellery!
And gold and treasure
And jewels too,
They were gold, silver, orange
Pink and blue!