Competition

Second Prize

Grandad's Shed
by Trevor Sweeney

For years I've had an image stuck here in my head
It is nothing too romantic, it's just my granddads shed
The shed was not fantastic it leaned a bit one way
I often thought it would collapse on the first real windy day

The roof was kind of rusty and there wasn't any spout
The weatherboards had curled and cracked and the nails fallen out
The weeds grew tall and healthy all around the place
But the reason I remember it, is the total lack of space

You see Granddad was a hoarder, and kept all sorts of stuff
It didn't matter what it was but he never had enough
A thousand rusty paint tins, and a million bits of wood
Of course, none of it was rubbish, and all of it was good

Old glass jars in boxes, layered thick with dust
And jam tins full of nails, encrusted thick with rust
I once saw a Victa mower, but that was years ago
Now buried under years of stuff, like a mountain under snow

About two dozen hubcaps, he had kept them all
He found them on the roadside, and nailed them to the wall
Rolls of rusty wire, for the chicken yard and fence
And every sort of fence post, the collection was immense

There were car parts by the hundred; he kept them just in case
In case he ever fixed the wrecks, scattered 'round the place
He had kept the motors, carefully covered them with bags
Bags the years and rodents; had now reduced to rags

There were oil tins and grease guns, and a rusty forty-four
And some kind of leather harness hung behind the door
Hidden in the comer was some kind of horse drawn cart
Spoked wooden wheels and leather seat, it still looked very smart

There was machinery and ancient tools on a tiny patch of floor
Some of which I've no idea, what you'd use them for
A workbench stacked with boxes, contents undefined
And several thousand miles of orange bailing twine

When asked about his treasure, collected over many years
Granddad gave this answer, now music to my ears
For his simple explanation, I still can hear him say
I keep it 'cause it's handy and I might need it all one day.

Third Prize

The Western Run
by Jack Harris

Now the miles are so wide, on that old Western Run
As you go with your face to the setting of sun,
And slyly the dawn, comes up at your back,
When you set out to travel that rough Western track.

There are memories dark on the sad Western Run,
This Land had grown old, long before time begun,
Where the red rocks still gleam in the hot sand between
And hand-prints still show where the Old men have been.

So slow the days go, on that long Western Run,
When the land's in the grip of the hot summer sun.
And the countryside quivers in middle-day heat
From the near-molten rocks, that are hurting your feet.

Quiet night-skies are warm on that vast Western Run
And for only a while it seems Dark has won,
When the stars are so close, they are almost in reach,
Where they're scattered like sand on a heavenly beach.

Those electrical storms on the dry Western Run
Will echo around, like the sound of a gun
But the scent of the rain on that drought-stricken plain
Can lighten your heart when you smell it again.

Will you travel with me to that far Western Run?
Where the past and the future are living as one,
Where Australia's red heart is still beating for you
Beyond those far hills so incredibly blue.

Highly Commended

The Possum
by Des Bennett

The possum descended the chimney, while looking for somewhere to nest,
he slid down the flue, akimbo askew, the missus was less than impressed.
The possum was feeling bewildered, and more than a little non-plussed,
he'd hit with a thud, as would a dud skud, was dizzy and lightly concussed.

The time had now come for reaction, of positive nature and more,
and so with great speed, regardless of heed, I charged in to open the door.
I lunged with a towel and I grabbed him, but suddenly revitalised,
he led with a roar, deep throated full bore, aggressively now energised.

He twisted he squirmed and he bit me, he struggled and clawed with his paws,
I let out a yell, cried out 'what the hell', while fielding repeated encores.
I threw off that possum with gusto, I had to admit my defeat,
and then man oh man, things king hit the fan, he made a rampageous retreat.

He landed quite high on the mantle, and flew into gear at top speed,
he rampaged along, a midget King Kong, intent on a jungle stampede.
My prized mantle treasures went flying, in every which way and then some,
he flew through the air, in manic despair, the wife was about to succumb.

He savaged poor Felix our feline, who'd seen fit to enter the fray,
as both of them fought, I had the wild thought, that blasting would not go astray.
They scratched and they clawed at the lounge suite, the damage was starting to mount,
then into the room, came wife with a broom, determined to bring to account.

I scrambled to open the doorway, to let this tornado pass out,
I wasn't to know, this wouldn't be so, with Bluey the heeler about.
He shot through my legs at the doorway, at not quite the warp speed of light,
he entered the fray, caused more disarray, as down came the curtains from height.

A tumble-ball quickly developed, or was it a scrum I'm not sure,
whatever the case, they soon picked up pace, and cartwheeled at speed out the door.
They landed quite hard on my coupé, wide open and parked down below,
this thumping mistake, unloosened the brake, with ev'rything now set to go.

And go it sure did with a vengeance, as freed from its shackles and chains,
it first hit the drive, and then with a dive, the freeways' conglomerate lanes.
The crash that came next was almighty, with everything so far implied,
I fell out of bed, fair square on my head, a nightmare, but boy what a ride.