Competition

Third Prize

The sweetness of a rose…
by Juliet Cleary
Melbourne, Vic

The sweetness of a rose…
The ragged scent of damp lumber, plastered in burgundy flames, roaring in the mornings,
The bitter aroma of peppermint and pipe tobacco that glided through the house,
The corridor to the kitchen, a memory of babbled laughter and hilarity,
The fresh, moist air, and the sticky moss that surrounded every log in town,
The wet cement, smeared in footprints and coated in specks of grime,
The imminent blossoms, webbed in the depths of the sunlight, beaming across each and every eye
The fresh berries, picked every Sunday afternoon, the juice constantly streaming down my chin,
Sitting by the pulsating sunsets, watching the horizon over the calming water,
My feet layered with sand grains, and the pungent smell of underwater shrubbery with a cooling sea scent,
Wrestling over the last corn chip, which was said to be good luck,
Dancing to a pounding drum, drumming a tune of a swollen heartbeat,
The poise person in the mirror, never to be the same, like the beating of the aboriginals’ sticks,
These stinging memories,
Surround the sweetness of a rose…

Highly Commended

Night Fire, of an orphan…
by Juliet Cleary
Melbourne, Vic

The heart beat I carry, begins to fade,
As I peer into the dimness of the room,
My gut suffers an immense burn,
Just like the urging belligerent anger, hidden inside me.

Hellish memories, cast daunting shadows over my emptiness,
The feeling swells against my hopes,
Wiping away the fallen tears,
And drenches me in a web of thoughts.

The rain droplets outside, they fall, splattering, like a slap of a hand on my left cheek,
Like the pain, that no longer hurts,
Like a nightmare, springing into my head every thought I remember,
Like a beating drum, playing a soft tune, one that is never to be the same.

The finely hand-made soldier, standing with arrogance and self-confidence,
Assembled upon my desk, in a room, I could call my own,
Where the scent of lavender oil and newspapers loomed around the room,
Filled with energy, thoughts, memories, comfort, and liberation.

The night, filled with a raging fire, built with ginger flames and damp lumber,
Crackling and crippling dreams, burning in the fire, each night,
The sound gathering around my hearing, of a lingering presence, another soul,
The movement only seen by me, a picture created in front of me, just for me.

My head circles conclusions,
I approach the ache in my heart, and stand for the soldier on the desk,
For the heart, pitched on a silver chain, around my neck,
For the cold, damp, loneliness, and for the swollen tears, shed each night, burning into
The Night Fire.

I fall to my knees, as the light of the flame beckons down over me,
The power, running throughout my body, heart and soul,
The tears, streaming constantly towards the flame, the pain turning numb,

As I run with the children, back home…into the Night Fire…