Winners 2020

​Scroll down to read the winning poems
​

Adult

1st  Flash Flood by Sammy Weaver from Hay on Wye

2nd  Glories by Julian Turner from Otley

3rd  Where Shallow Waters Run Deep by Michaela Coplen from Oxford

Shortlisted

The Beginning of a Poem and Antarctica by Michael Brown from Middlesbrough
Cock Beck Diptych and Requiem for the People of Doggerland by Patrick Lodge from Stutton, North Yorkshire
Water as witness &passage &murderer &tea by Eniola Oladipo from Ithaca, NY, USA
Solastalgia and Listen to the sea-women by Marion Oxley from Todmorden, West Yorkshire
Growing up in the Anthropocene by Estelle Price from Wilmslow, Cheshire
The Impact of Water by Kiera Summer from Norwich, Norfolk
Lough Neagh and Contact by Glen Wilson from Portadown, Co. Armagh

Secondary

1st  Abhainn by Imogen Philip from Rugby High School, Rugby

2nd Message in a Bottle by Elise Scotney from Rugby High School, Rugby

3rd Afterwards by Libby Russell from Hailsham

Shortlisted

Poem About Water by Amaan Ali from Dixon's Academy, Bradford (Year 7)
The Turtle's Long Journey by Django Bennett
Emotions by Teigan Davis from Parkstone Grammar School, Poole
Untitled Document by Gauri Jain from Katong Girls' School, Singapore
Joining the Sea by Palak Jolly from The Shri Ram School, Moulsari, New Delhi, India
Ocean Survival by Lucy Reynolds from Wyck Rissington, Cheltenham
Underwater by Sarah-Kate Simons from Canterbury, New Zealand
Observations inspired by rising sea by Anya Trofimova from London

Primary

1st The Impact of Water by Gargi from Katesgrove Primary School, Reading

2nd The Gentleness of the Waterfall by Ella from Kirkburton First School (Year 4), Kirkburton

3rd The Storm by Eve from Jump Primary School (Year 4), Barnsley

Shortlisted

From Kirkburton First School:
The Sea by Annabelle
The Everchanging Sea by Ethan
The Sea by Michael
The Sea by Reilly
From Jump Primary School:
Winter by Aaron
Rain by Reid

The winning poems
​

  

ADULT


                   F L A S H  F L O O D
 
where to begin
           having fallen so long in a swarm of falling rain


                     one flash


then another


                     flash


on the tops above the Calder


one raindrop
drops
I had a thought
once


I thought it mine
          a tiny film of light playing the earth backwards in my curve


then one by one falling all at once
like a choir warming up before a performance


before the ground rushed towards us
welding us into one voice not so much as a choice


           as a mass exodus
           as a chorus on the run


we took our turns
at breaking ourselves into ourself


we used to be very clear
letting light pass right through


now we soak light up like this mud this shoe
notice us moving oblivious through a living room


           as if no one is listening


working our way up from under
no wonder we cannot tell where we begin where
we end this giant sepia anaconda


         we have a heart for foreign objects
         like a scrap man passing through village
         taking all he touches
!        leaving only muddy footprints


we have noticed some things like to be lifted
like this book drifting open from its spine
into a pair of delicate wings


                     there is a silence
       in the aftermath of so much falling




                 in so little 
                 time


like an eye blinded by a flashlight

Sammy Weaver



 
Glories
 
In Iceland, a thousand rivers drop off cliffs,
a single shaft of fraying waterfall
unthreading itself as it falls from a great height,
while here, there are deep channels for them to run in,
clefts worn away for millions of years that seem,
to our short-livedness, their natural habitat.
 
The spring melt-water off the glaciers,
a kind of white so white it's blue, that drops
at Gullfoss in a lather of sheet spray,
has the kind of power you shield yourself from
or are destroyed, so cold you feel hot irons
burn your skin and warp and wrap your fingers
 
in a clutch of frost, so loud your head spins with
shocking whirlpools of sound. What shapes, what forms
do mighty waters take as they cascade
from the interior lava fields: fosse, force
and all falls, hurl themselves into the air
and float there in a glory of rainbows? Inhale
 
behind the screen of Thornton Force its curtain
of thunderous ions hiding in glassy ropes,
the grykes of limestone filled with clear water,
a lost wine glass, the black bedrock cups pools
where the flat river spools away toward the plain,
the flood-water yielding up its mute harvests.
 
Julian Turner




WHERE SHALLOW WATERS RUN DEEP


We reached Mount Nebo with the dawn. The hills stretched low beneath our
gaze in yellow-rose and grey. I stood with my arms around myself, November
as sharp as a dry-throated threat. The gravel-crunch shifted with our weight.
Abdullah climbed a low stone wall.


Madaba, he told us, as he motioned down the mountain. Jericho, another jab,
his back turned to the growing light. Ramallah, under still-black sky. Jerusalem.
Hebron. We raised our heels and craned our necks. He only said the city
names. Up north, the Jordan River hid in golden-shadowed folds.


And then we traced the road back down to meet the Dead and dying Sea, our
inner-eyes now narrowed to the whitely glaring sun. We peered through
grease-blotch windows as the bus seats shook beneath us— to where green
water broke to foam against the dust-blush shore.


There, Abdullah’s finger found the coastline’s salted seams—each layer
marked a different shade by when it last knew wet. One year; two years. Farther
off: Three years; five years; ten. As I watched, a man walked decades down to
meet the water’s edge.


At noon we came to the River itself, where wooden platforms framed the
place they say the Christ was christened. On both banks palm trees grew and
greened—where they stretched themselves tall and waterward, their frondtips
nearly touched.


I tied my skirt above my knees. On the other side, some matching shirts sang
swinging gospel songs. And then we splashed our own legs in, their
nakedness a new surprise. We giggled as water climbed our thighs. We lost
our toes to silt.


Careful, Abdullah shouted, that you don’t go past the rope. Then you’ve crossed the
border, and they’ll shoot you where you stand. He crouched down to the River,
cupped it gently in one hand. Isn’t that right? he called across, his English
clear and spare.


I want to say the singing stopped. The water all fell still. A guard on the
other side tilted his chin to meet our foreign stare. His eyes like an old joke:
tired, full. He raised his weapon in the air. Then slowly, with the other hand,
he wagged his finger left to right. His body compass-needle-turned to find
Abdullah out.


For a while they seemed cemented there, in midday River-light. And us
between them: muddy-footed, wide-eyed, breathless, numb. Abdullah stood
and raised his head, his hand limp-dripping at his side. All statue-stilled in
silence. Then their faces cracking wide—eyes meeting crinkled eyes above
our heads.
​

We exhaled open-mouthed, the moment past. Stomachs folded, shoulders
shook. They waved across the stream and laughed.

Michaela Coplen



SECONDARY


Abhainn:
The river has always run this course.
She has followed herself
Down through this chasm of rock
For centuries.
As she runs, she takes gifts,
Fragments of rock from the walls,
Fallen bronze leaves,
Buttercups and cornflowers.
She bears these treasures
Down through the valley
And out to sea.
She is never in only one place;
She is always everywhere.
When it rains she swells,
Rushing faster and faster.
They think she is angry,
But she doesn't mean to hurt them.
She tries to apologise,
But they don't understand.
Only in Summertime
Can she make peace;
When her ebb fades down,
So children can paddle once more.
 
Heart Healing:
Tiny ripples bathe my heart,
Cleaning away the heartache of loss,
As I stand at the edge of the surf,
Soothing my toes in the ocean.
I can taste the sea spray in the mist,
Saltier than your cruellest words.
The soft raindrops wash the tears from my face,
As my eyes flood the pores in my skin.
I stand, motionless, for hours,
Letting the storm wash my pain away.
Gradually I begin to feel whole again
As the tides return the broken pieces of my heart,
Ready to be patched together again.

Imogen Philip


Message In A Bottle
 
She screams her final testament
into the hands of the sea,
trusting that it will carry
her strangled cry out to the shore
and return with freedom, with truth.
 
But the sea has a deal with the horizon,
a pact if you will:
they share the fruits of the waves
and suffocate lost poems in their embrace.
For, truth will never return
it waits out on the sunrise.

Elise Scotney


Afterwards
 
The first shower was a baptism.
I turned the water up to full heat,
Asked it to scald me, let it wash away
Every trace of his hands and my silence,
His surprise at my gratitude when he stopped,
And the gratitude itself, every last foul crumb,
Until I emerged steaming and dripping with shame.
Unable to drop my towel and dress,
I retreated to the bathroom, to scrub
My scalp, my face, my stomach red, and tell myself,
Come on, get a grip, you’re autonomous, you’re a feminist.
You take your body home at the end of the day.
Months later, comfort came from a fact
On the back of a cereal packet, which said
That our cells regenerate in a seven-year cycle, meaning
Time will bring me a body that he has never touched.
 
Libby Russell



PRIMARY


The impact of water 
 
Water is life, 
Water is hygiene, 
Water can create a major scene. 
It quenches our thirst, 
But it can do worst. 
It can destroy homes, 
Make waves with enormous domes, 
But it can still be calm, 
Like when you are chanting a psalm. 
People can play in it, 
Because it provides joy. 
It’s an endless container of life, 
But at the moment, 
It’s being destroyed. 
There is life in the waters, 
Most undiscovered, 
But bit by bit, 
It’s being uncovered. 
Water has a unique meaning, 
Without it we cannot survive, 
Because its impacts are bad, 
But its necessities are huge, 
In its true good nature, 
It provides us health and refuge. 
 
Gargi (age 11)
 

The gentleness of the waterfall
 
The touch of the waterfall is like a shooting star
Wish to touch it again in your life.
The noise of the waterfall is like a humming bird so calm so gentle.
 
The back of the waterfall has a water dripping animal.
It sleeps at day and at night strikes thunder
And joins the unsettled river.
The water is important because we need it to survive!
It drips and drips.
 
The waterfall drips all day long
It never stops it’s a volcano that shoots out water
The waterfall is a slide for water
 
Ella (age 8)


The Storm

Dark clouds cover the shiny moon,
As quick as a flash goes the lightning.
The light of the moon reflects on each lagoon,
The sound of the thunder is very frightening.

Tall trees rapidly sway in the whistling wind,
The sky is as black as an underground tunnel.
Wind is so strong that trees collapse,
And the whirling wind makes the shape of a funnel.

Eve (age 9)