I don’t want to go by Sandra Thom-Jones

The first steps forward by Alisha Gobalakrishnan

Flipped perspectives by Ivy Moon

The wild, the shadow and the music box by Emmalyn Haung

Frosty, the kind snowman by Laveta Tsui

Another lifestyle village gig by Jake Dennis

The Triple R by Jim Kent

The tree’s year by Samina Ahmed

Bird cage by Bonnie-Maree Richardson

Tropical Cyclone Alfred by Penelope Bird

I don’t want to go

Sandra Thom-Jones 

Winner, Adult prose

“I don’t want to go”. “You are going to have a wonderful time”.
“I am going to have a terrible time”. Jill sighed, steeling herself for battle. She had spent the last two months researching, trying to find the perfect place for Michael to go while she was at work. After whittling the list down to three with the highest customer ratings, she had arranged personal visits. Finally, she had selected Rainbow Oaks.

It was further from her office, and would add twenty minutes to their commute at the beginning and end of each day, but it had a homier atmosphere than the two larger centres she visited. There was something about the comfy-looking pastel coloured furniture, shelves stacked with puzzles, and mismatched coat hooks in the entry hall that made her feel that Michael would be happy here.

When the director rattled off the long list of activities that were available, but quickly clarified that all activities were optional, Jill was convinced this was the place. They had agreed on a starting date, commencing with two days a week, and then increasing to full time once he was settled. Today was the big day.

“Now pop your shoes on and get in the car” .“You can’t make me”.
“No, I can’t make you, but I am asking you nicely” .“It’s not fair. Why do I have to go?” Jill forced a smile, which didn’t quite reach her eyes, and gently reminded him. “We’ve talked about this. It’s been great being home together, but I have to go back to work”.

She knew this was hard for Michael. It was hard for her too. They had muddled through the months since the accident in a mixture of disbelief, anger, sadness and, for her, guilt.

Her rational mind (and the grief counsellor) told her that it was no-one’s fault, and certainly not hers, that Shane’s car had hit a fallen tree and run off the road. But that didn’t stop her from thinking that if she had gone to pick Libby up from bingo that night rather than staying for a drink after work, her husband and mother would both still be alive. Of course she could never share those thoughts with Michael, but she wondered to herself whether that was why she had allowed her temporary break from work to last for so long. Michael jerked her thoughts back to the present, with a triumphant exclamation, “I could come to work with you”.
For one absurd moment Jill considered capitulating, just this once. She shook her head as she imagined her boss’s face when he discovered the stowaway drawing birds in the corner of her office, or eating all the biscuits in the staff tearoom. She sighed, then pasted her smile back on and in her best cheery voice reminded him, “We talked about that as well. I’m not allowed to have visitors in the office. Not even quiet, well-behaved ones like you.”
For what seemed like the longest time they stood with their eyes locked on each other, neither willing to budge, like two cats in a staring contest. Just when Jill was at the point of admitting defeat and calling in sick, Michael stomped out to the car and clambered into the back seat, slamming the door behind him. He scowled at her in the rear vision mirror the whole way to Rainbow Oaks. When they pulled into the carpark, he picked up his backpack off the seat beside him, giving her a reproachful gaze as he shuffled out of the car, and slammed the door again for good measure. Jill checked him in, giving the staff way too many instructions and reminders to call if anything went wrong. The centre director smiled and nodded, and wrote everything down; she was used to first-timers.

Michael looked so small and frail standing at the gate, still scowling as she drove away. Jill almost turned the car around. But she had used up all her leave and she needed to be back in the office.

She couldn’t afford to lose her job, now that she was the sole income earner in the family, and she knew that being back at work would give her something positive to focus on. Anyway, the social worker insisted that it would be good for Michael, for both of them actually, to spend some time out of the house interacting with other people.

Jill was surprised at how easily she slipped back into the routine of work. She had been worried that after such a long absence her skills would have atrophied from lack of use. But she quickly found her fingers flying across the keyboard, responding to client emails and crafting a pitch for a new campaign to present to the editorial meeting at the end of the week. That didn’t stop her worrying constantly about Michael, if anything it made her worry more. What if her joy at being back in the workplace, interacting with her colleagues and exercising her creative muscles, was at the cost of Michael’s happiness?

After what seemed the longest day in history, punctuated by regular checks of her phone to make sure there were no missed calls or messages from Rainbow Oaks, Jill shut down her computer and headed out to the carpark. “Michael, look who is here” the centre director’s honeyed voice called out on seeing Jill peering anxiously through the door Michael didn’t even look up from the table where he was playing a board game with two others. Was he still angry with her?

Jill walked over and gently put her hand on Michael’s shoulder. He barely glanced at her, “Just five more minutes please?”
Jill and the centre director exchanged glances, the latter sharing a grin and a knowing nod.

“Can I go there again tomorrow?” Michael asked as they sat down to dinner.
“Only if you eat all your vegetables”.
Michael chuckled, “You drive a hard bargain, Jilly my girl.”
As Jill passed him the potatoes, she realised that was the first time she had heard her father laugh since Mum died.

The first steps forward

Alisha Gobalakrishnan

Winner, Young adult prose

A gentle breeze caressed my cheeks, the scent of jasmine lingering in the humid air. A stillness settled around me, broken only by the rhythmic movement of the current. I stood two steps away from the Ganges River. Two steps away from my heritage. I had made it to India.

I thought back to my arrival at New Delhi’s International Airport. The rush of cool air inside the terminal had quickly given way to intense humidity outside. I was standing on the land that formed half of who I was, the ancestral homeland of my grandfather’s stories. Yet, beyond the chaotic roads, Bollywood billboards, and unfamiliar languages, I felt like an outsider. This place wasn’t home. Australia was.

Sure, I had brown skin, dark eyes, and frizzy, jet-black hair. But beyond those traits, could I truly call myself Indian? Growing up in a multicultural, immigrant family, we didn’t follow traditions. I wasn’t Hindu, didn’t speak Hindi, and never celebrated Indian festivals. My only connection to India had been through Tata, my grandfather. Though he didn’t speak English, he shared stories of India with reverence.

With him, I never needed to prove anything. Life without him had been incredibly hard. He wore a ring, a small symbol of his past, and now it rested in my pocket, an anchor to a history I didn’t understand. Amid my life in Australia, I often felt my culture slipping through my fingers, despite how hard I tried to keep up.
Not Australian enough.
Not Indian at all.

And so, here I was, two steps from the Ganges, suspended between uncertainty and self-discovery. I took a deep breath, recalling Tata’s words about the river’s power to cleanse. I needed that clarity. I was searching for answers, hoping to rediscover a part of myself that felt lost. As I approached the water, a creeping sense of presence stirred the air. I wasn’t alone.
A frail man stood beside a bamboo raft, eyes fixed on the water. He wore a dhoti, his head wrapped in a scarf. A Guru.
“I need to cross,” I said, my voice coarser than expected.
He didn’t move.
“You do not hold the pass.”

A pass? I fumbled through my pockets, pulling out only my iPhone. Then my fingers brushed against something familiar. The ring. I knew it was an heirloom, passed down through generations, but it had never felt as significant as it did now.
With trembling hands, I held it out.
“Would this be acceptable?”
The Guru studied it, then silently nudged the raft into the water, an invitation. My fingers tightened around the ring as I slipped it onto my finger, its warmth reassuring.

The raft floated into a dense mist. The water shimmered like scattered diamonds, but the world around me seemed distant. It was just the Guru, the water, and me. But as we drifted forward, a figure began to emerge. An old woman, draped in a faded sari, stood ahead. Her gaze pierced me, eyes carrying generations of wisdom.

“You seek answers?” she harshly scoffed. “You grew up where you could choose what to hold onto. How can you claim a heritage you’ve turned away from?” Her voice stung. I bristled, but deep down I knew there was truth in her words. In Australia, I could choose who I wanted to be, including which parts of my culture I discarded.
“I never abandoned it,” I croaked. “That’s why I’m here.”

She cast me one final, pointed look, before vanishing into the mist. But just before disappearing, I caught a glint on her finger: a ring, identical to Tata’s. Who was she to me? Before I could dwell on it, another figure emerged: a girl my age, wearing a simple salwar kameez.
“You have choice,” she said. “You are lucky.”
I almost laughed. Lucky? I’d spent my whole life torn between two cultures, failing to belong anywhere.
“I don’t feel lucky,” I admitted.
“I was married at fourteen, had children by sixteen. I never had a voice, yet you struggle to embrace the heritage I wasn’t allowed to leave behind,” she replied.

Her words silenced me. All my life I hated having to choose between being Indian and Australian, but at least I had the freedom to choose. Some people didn’t. She, too, disappeared, but her words lingered. The raft carried us deeper, approaching an imposing presence.
The Guru peered ahead. “We’re here.”

The mist cleared to reveal a strange landscape. Still India, but surreal. The trees bent low, the sky swirling with muted colours. Everything felt dreamlike. I stepped off the raft, alone. Drawn forward, I found a vibrant mahogany tree, starkly contrasting to its dull surroundings. Beneath it, a stooped figure turned. I froze, tears welling in my eyes.
“Tata?” I whispered, rushing to embrace him, but my arms passed through his body, as if he were ethereal, a shade. I failed twice more.
He smiled, eyes warm and knowing. His gaze dropped to the ring on my finger.“ This has been passed down through generations,” he spoke tenderly.
“A link between past and present.”I blinked, startled. I could understand him perfectly. No language barrier. It was as if he were speaking perfect English.

“You don’t have to prove your heritage, Sha,” he said gently. “It’s already within you. It lives in your values, your heart, not your clothes or language.”
Overwhelmed, tears spilled down my cheeks. I thought of the times I’d sat with him, my father translating. Now, I understood every word, and that connection felt profound and familiar. Tata beckoned me. “Come and see.”

We walked past the mahogany tree into a lush space where flowers bloomed and dew glistened. Through the mist ahead, a procession took shape. “This is the future of our people,” Tata said.
A first group appeared: men in dhotis, women in bright saris, children in colourful traditional outfits. They embodied the image of Indian culture. I could never fit into. Then came another group. Indian too, but in jeans, Tshirts, sneakers. Relaxed, casual, lacking the poise and deference of the first group. They were just like me. But despite their differences, both groups walked together, united by one force: their culture.
And that’s when something clicked.

I was part of that procession. I was the legacy of this country, of my
continuing culture, of Tata. The people who carried my culture included everyone with a connection to my heritage, not just the ones I thought were ‘truly Indian’. It was never about what I looked like, dressed like, or acted like. My culture had always been in me.

I turned to Tata, heart brimming with clarity. I embraced the moment, a gentle smile across his face. Then he spoke once more. “Now go.”I was at the river again, but this time not two steps away. I
stood at the banks, gazing into the shimmering water, reflecting faces of my ancestors, my people. And while I’d return to Australia, I’d never again feel torn between two steps, two identities, two worlds. This time, I had truly understood what it meant to belong, and this was the first step into my new chapter.

Flipped perspectives

Ivy Moon

Winner, Primary prose (11-12 y.o.)

The world is a simple place. There are the rich, and there are the poor. The strong and the weak. The smart and the ignorant. Everything is easy to read and to figure out. When you’ve spent your whole life relying on reading people like a book, it’s easy to always stay one step ahead. Everyone thinks the same, acts the same and makes the same decisions. I guess that’s fine, all well and good, but sometimes, I wonder. What would happen if we flipped it all?

Change is a matter of balance. There is always a balance between people, what we call the social hierarchy. Change means unbalancing the delicate scale of life. Of course, one half will be positively joyous, while the other will be furious. Change is a dangerous risk. A threat that people fear, a construct of society’s expectations.

I am what people call, a social misfit. Someone with no friends, only because I am different. I think different. Adults refer to me as ‘unique’. Disgust shows in their voice, the subtle inches of distance between us increasing, thinly masked by an expression of politeness, or worse, pity. But adults are supposed to be polite. Even if people like me are the ones who unbalance the scales. I kept dreaming, every single day. Never giving up, never losing hope. There would be change, someday or another. It took 20 years. The world changed around me, people grew, buildings appeared and disappeared again as indecisive aristocrats moved in and out of the luxurious buildings. The sun rose and set and I counted them all, one by one, one after another.

The library was my happy place. It was safe, quiet. People who were normal didn’t go there. It was boring to them, their minds only satisfied with the bustling, ever changing nature of the outside world. But one morning, it wasn’t the same. The silence was still there, but it felt off. Heavier, almost electric. I walked through the gates like I had a thousand times before, fingers brushing the iron as if to confirm it still existed. The familiar crunch of gravel under my boots echoed louder than usual. Too loud.
And then I saw it.
The library was upside down.

Not metaphorically. Not in a dream. Not in some poetic sense of perspective. No. It was literally flipped, like some cosmic hand had reached down and turned it over like a coin. The foundation was in the sky, and the peaked roof dug into the earth like a dagger.

Books tumbled from broken windows, pages fluttering like the wings of confused birds. The grand wooden doors, once symbols of comfort were now high above, unreachable. I stood in silence, breath caught in my throat, my face stunned, features amplified with surprise. This place had been my sanctuary, untouched by time, a space immune to the world’s shifting chaos. And now, it was a monument of disarray.
It should have terrified me. But it didn’t.
It felt right.

Because this-this-was what change really looked like. Not a neat exchange of ideas or a polite revolution. It was jarring, it was violent. It was impossible to ignore. And standing there, watching the pages of the centuries scatter into the wind, I understood something no one had dared to say out loud. Change doesn’t come when we’re ready for it. It comes when the world is flipped on its head.

The upside down library became a symbol, a warning. For the rich who lived in sky-high towers, for the strong who dismissed the quiet ones, for the adults that smiled with pity. The ground was no longer solid beneath their feet. The rules were no longer theirs to write.
And for me?
For me, it was the first time I felt like the world finally made sense.
Because sometimes, everything just needs to be flipped.

The wild, the shadow and the music box

Emmalyn Haung

Winner, Primary prose (9-10 y.o.)

Time is a fickle thing. It is not always on your side, nor always against you. It isn’t always neutral, for that fact. Why am I telling you this? Good question. Maybe I just feel as if that belongs here.

This is the tale of a moment.

I was born strange, into a family that you would call “rather average.” But I never felt as if I belonged. While my family was disciplined and neat, I was a thing of the Wild, a creature of my own rules. I never got up early, and I hated getting caught up in my family’s rules. The motto of my family was:
“Time is two hands on a clock face, spinning on and waiting for no one. “

I really hated that motto. It wasn’t the only one. My siblings were always quoting them at me. They either didn’t know or care, but they were spinning an enormous net, one that would catch me and shrink me down until I existed on the barest thread, not even trailing a shadow behind me.

“You should use that fork, not the salad one.”
“Why didn’t you get straight As? I tutored you!”
“You are late. You’ll get suspended if you don’t hurry up!
“You’re too quiet.”
“You never take anything seriously.”
“You’re a loser.”
“Dork.”
“Lame-o.”
“Stupid.”

The look that would then hit me from every angle, the sneer of disappointment and annoyance would always want me to curl up into a ball and cry. Part of me longed to escape the confines of this prison, but the rest didn’t know where to go. This place, this horrible place was my home. No one else would take me.

Every day, I would wake up, tears in my eyes for no apparent reason, expecting to see something other than the cold, barren box that was my bedroom. Each time, I would be disappointed. Sometimes, I wanted oblivion to just, take me already and the pain would disappear…but no. Oblivion was too cruel for that small mercy.

And like that I lived, the invisible one in the group. The one that faded from photos and left not even a shadow in her wake. The one who lived for the sake of nothing, not bearing the will to open my eyes further than I need to, not existing in people’s minds. The Wild in me was a distant memory, a child’s fantasy. My life was a misery, or was it? Did what I had even count as life anymore?

But that’s not the moment. No, the moment was something else.

On an unremarkable night, I was tinkering with a broken music box for my STEM class. Its run-down state wasn’t improving, but I was a robot like the ones in the STEM class now, slaving with no emotion or tire. Then the small, pale white oval box caught the light of the full moon.

“When the darkness rise…”

I blinked. This was a song I…loved? Since when? But before I could think, I started swaying to the music, singing along to the melody drifting heavily from the box like a sweet, a gentle, perfume.

But then something remarkable happened.

“My senses weathered from time…”

Behind me, my feet felt a tingling sensation. As I turned, I saw a phenomenon. A piece of shimmering dark fabric, tied to my ankles…

My shadow was dancing.

When I grew up, I became both a singer and dancer. But even though my glamorous career was filled with many songs and dances, there was one that I always sang and swayed to at home.

When the darkness rise…
My senses weathered from time…
The Wild in me seeks to cross the line…

Because time is on no one’s side, you can do something to make you live as long as possible, but if you wish to be remembered, you must spark the Wild, set off the Music Box, sustain your Shadow, and bring your best self to life.

Frosty the kind snowman

Laveta Tsui

Winner, Junior primary prose

Twinkle, twinkle, the stars were shining upon the dark sky. The cold wind was chasing in the town. This Christmas Eve was quiet and freezing. Only a few people were on the street, rushing to their homes. No one noticed that the snowman Frosty was in the middle of the park. He had two crystal eyes, a carrot nose, and two stick hands. He wore a black hat, a woolly scarf, and a red cape.

Some children ran through the park in a hurry. “Excuse me, Frosty. Did you see my precious star, the one for the Christmas tree?” the youngest child asked. “No, I haven’t,” said Frosty. “But I can give you one of my eyes. It is made of crystal, as shiny as your star.” “HOORAY! Thank you, Frosty.” the children yelled.

A little parrot flew over Frosty. It shivered badly and cried out, “HELP! I am so cold! Can you give me something to warm up, Frosty?” “How about my scarf? You can use it to wrap yourself,” said Frosty. “This is just the right size for me. You are so caring,” the parrot felt so thankful. Frosty was so proud that he could help others. He wished that Santa would give him a present for being a good snowman.

Whoosh! A giant red balloon appeared from the sky and dashed to Frosty like flash. Frosty was so scared until he found out the red balloon was actually — SANTA! Frosty could not believe his eyes. “Hey, Frosty. Could you help us to look for some food? The reindeer are starving.” Santa asked. “I would love to, but, but I have only one carrot.” Frosty felt so sorry. “That is OK. I can use that to make more carrots,” smiled Santa.

The reindeer munched on the carrots happily. But Santa was worried that it was too late to give out the presents. “Don’t worry, Santa. ” said Frosty, “I have a special cape that can help you fly.” “You are amazing, Frosty.” Santa put on Frosty’s cape and flew away like superman. Frosty was in full of joy, even though he did not receive any presents.

Next morning, when the sun warmed up every corner of the town, the water started to drip from Frosty’s body. Drip, drip, drip. “Oh NO! Frosty is melting!” shouted the children. Someone suggested to call the parents. Someone suggested to add more snow. Someone even suggested to move Frosty to Antarctica.

HOHOHO! Here came Santa flying into town. He whispered a spell to Frosty. All of a sudden, Frosty stopped melting and slowly healed by himself. What a miracle! “Frosty, I hope you like your Christmas present –the ‘NEVER MELT’ spell!

You deserve it because you show kindness to all of us.” Santa announced. “This is the best Christmas present in my life!” Frosty cried in happy tear. The children clapped. The birds flapped. Everyone cheered up. Being kind makes life bright!

Another lifestyle village gig

Jake Dennis

Open Poetry

They have been gathered here today 
in their dining hall to watch me perform
whether or not they wanted this.
They know there is little left 
to expect from visitors and seasons. 
Even meals, despite dementia, seem 
surprising yet familiar as their own hands. 
I am an only child without children; should I worry? 
One nurse assures me ‘Many residents 
have grandchildren, and each have so many 
deceased and surviving friends and family.’ 
Shaking like Elvis I begin 
with ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ If we are lucky enough 
to continue living, will we not all 
end our lives in a home? Moved by ‘Sway,’
or maybe Ol’ Blue Eyes (‘You make me feel so…’),
one helmeted resident, from his wheelchair
raises himself up like a veteran 
ready to dance, until a nurse guides him 
into the safety of remaining seated. 
In our second childhood, when strangers 
become like parents, may they play 
for us the lullabies we love.

‘Que Sera Sera,’ from Hitchcock’s
The Man Who Knew Too Much, is the kind 
of singalong this audience seem to know. 
As the woken choir watch me jive
and mess about with melodies, a few look 
back across the avenues of this music, 
see themselves and someone else’s face and hands 
changed in sunlight and shade 
as they drive ahead and then are driven 
here. Another ballad ends and there 

I am again in this transition 
house of strangers. ‘I make the most 
of every breath,’ one of the many female residents 
tells me. No matter the song, Lucy smiles
and taps along. Of the well enough to choose,
the rest make other choices. From my trilby
I gift her a pink hibiscus. During a wartime classic 
the youngest gentleman (besides a nurse
and me) shuffles his feet then, as I leave, 
salutes me, hails me Sammy Davis. Now, I feel I am
almost as tall. Few look forward to tomorrow
but some of us, within this hour,
have forgotten how we felt before

The Triple R

Jim Kent

Bush poetry

The Triple R he called his holding – Rabbits, Rocks and Roots.
walking paddocks rarely without his Blucher boots.
heavy webbing leggings, army issue, always worn,
protection from the tiger snakes, the thistle, rampant thorn.

The last remaining Settler block, the only bid his own,
others laughed and called him fool, the block was mostly stone,
stumps and rocks, no grazing grass, no future there to carve,
if he didn’t die of snake bite surely then he’d starve.

Ignored the nasty knowing sneers from those who said he’d fail,
though rough and rock and thorny scrub the block his holy grail.
believing that beneath the rock a deep and fertile soil,
virgin land responding to determination, toil.

Old the tractor purchased calling it the “Little Fart”
cranky engine spluttering and often hard to start,
willing though and versatile and never weary worn,
grubbing stumps and hauling rock and slashing scrub and thorn.

Married then to Millie May, a local farmer’s lass,
who he met one Sunday morning on his way to mass,
cynic tongues were loose again, she wouldn’t stay, they said,
on that ugly little block – but she was country bred.

Born of sturdy farming stock she shared his vision grand,
toiling hard beside her man to tame his chosen land.
Rocks and stones to fences made the goodly Irish way,
fences strong across their land and still in place today.

Rabbits trapped, outwitted, like the snakes they disappeared,
rocks removed and warrens gone they never reappeared,
scrub and thorn were bashed and burnt, the thistles slashed and dead,
ploughing ground, the weeds destroyed and pasture gown instead.

They built a cosy cottage on the slope above the stream.
morning blessed by rising sun, each golden magic beam,
orchard planted at the back, a veggie garden neat,
son and daughter born to them and life became complete.

Toil rewarded, dreams fulfilled, now masters of their land,
stud developed, Murray Greys, their cattle in demand,
cynic tongues were silent for the man had come to stay.
rocky land to pastured soil, success along the way.

Joining lands he purchased, adding acres to his own,
reputation justly earned; the finest cattle grown.
rock and thorn to pasture grand and known near and far,
but the name has never changed, it’s still the TRIPLE R.

The Tree’s year

Samina Ahmed

Winner, Young adult poetry

The tree stood tall
Glowing leaves
Summer had no sign of thieves
Suddenly the wind came back

Shaking branches with no lack
Leaves were falling left and right
The tree had no sight
Lost in the winds feared fight

As spring came by
The tree went back to its normal groove
The wind came back one day

But instead the tree decided to sway
Side to side following the wind
No pushing no breaking, no longer stranded
Until summer finally landed

It was sad to see the wind away
But come back another day
Now it was time for the tree to stand
In the summers warm, bright land,

The tree, just like me
Adapting throughout the year
Trying hard with no fear
Have to push through

No matter what
And compromise with what you got.

Bird cage

Bonnie-Maree Richardson

Winner, primary poetry

The wires gleam, a silver, cruel embrace,
Around a place that once knew open space.
A feathered prisoner, with eyes so bright,
Observes the world beyond, in morning light.

He would hop the perch, a restless, tiny king,
Whose kingdom shrunk to bars that never swing.
He sees the sky, a canvas vast and blue,
And feels the wind, he used to fly right through.

His song, once joyful, soaring, free and bold,
Is now a whisper, a story left untold.
He remembers branches, swaying in the breeze,
The rustling leaves, the whispering of trees.

He sees his people, a flash of vibrant wing,
Soaring high, the freedom that they bring.
A pang of longing, sharp within his breast,
For sun-drenched meadows, and a feathered nest.

He pecks the seed, a poor, tasteless prize,
Compared to berries, under open skies.
He sips the water, clear, cold and still,
But it can’t satisfy the yearning in his will.

He grooms his feathers, once so sleek and bright,
Now dulled a little, by the endless night,
And day that blend, within this metal square,
A constant reminder of what isn’t there.

He watches children, pointing with delight,
Unknowing of the darkness in his plight.
They see a pet, a pretty thing to view,
But not the spirit, breaking through and through.

He dreams of breezes, of the boundless air,
Of soaring freely, without a single care.
He dreams of journeys, over land and sea,
A life of freedom, that he used to see.

The cage door opens, sometimes, for a hand,
To clean the space, he cannot understand.
A moment’s glimpse, of something just outside,
Then slammed shut quickly, with nowhere to hide.

He beats his wings against the rigid wire,
A futile effort, fuelled by fierce desire.
A silent scream, a desperate, trapped appeal,
For just one moment, to be truly real.

He learns to live within this confined space,
A shadow of the freedom he embraced.
But in his eyes, a spark still flickers on,
A memory of the wild, that won’t be gone.

And sometimes, when the world is hushed and deep,
He sings a song, that secrets softly keep.
A song of longing, for the open sky,
A bird’s sorrow, that echoes, soft and high

Tropical Cyclone Alfred

Penelope Bird

Winner, Junior primary prose

The wind was getting stronger
And the clouds were turning grey;
Tropical Cyclone Alfred was coming
It would start any day.

People put sandbags at their doors
To stop the water flooding in;
They put cardboard on their windows
The rubbish truck man took our bin.

I’ve never seen a Cyclone before
But the news reader had some tips;
Stay indoors and pack a torch
Turn over your trampoline, in case it rips.

School was cancelled for three days,
Buses and trains all stopped;
Mum and Dad let me watch the storm,
The trees flipped and flopped.

We had plenty of food and electricity
Our home was safe and dry;
But others weren’t as lucky
Their homes were destroyed, it made me cry.

Lots of people helped each other
To repair homes and rescue pets;
We need to take care of Mother Earth
A lesson I won’t forget.