Competition

Third Prize

Poland, 1942
by Jacqueline Krynda
Merewether High School, Broadmeadow, NSW

Every Friday
a whistle severs
the afternoon air.
It is crowded
with the pound,
the stamp
of booted feet.
The sound of it
bouncing off high walls
with cracks which
by night
become sinister.
Shadows leap
with every passing figure
trying desperately
to free themselves.
The silhouettes fall,
sinking, guttering,
they silently observe
the passers-by.
They are faces
wearing uniforms
with
flat smiles
and eyes that howl.

Highly Commended

The Sailing Club
by Jacqueline Krynda
Merewether High School, Broadmeadow, NSW

The old clubhouse
sits
at the end of the lake,
elbows on its knees,
(peeling white through light blue)
contemplating the water
sloshing around its ankles.
Inside
the best place
is in the corner
on an up-turned milk crate.
Above, stairs murmur as footsteps climb them
(up and down).
Water runs under salty timber,
tangled wires
hang down to rest.
Warm air finds its way in
amongst all the odd shapes.
Milky chalk has settled on the board
(the same old course).
Things are taken down then put back.
Oh, sometimes they get repainted
and renamed, and we shuffle them around,
repair bits that fall off,
track our wet boot marks across the floor
at the end of the day.
Hang gloves off the roof beams,
fill the fridge downstairs with wine
for the end of season party.
Someone’s soggy wetsuit is left and forgotten;
the memories are not so good now.
But they still know the way upstairs
to salad rolls; beetroot, lettuce and tomato.
Besides, there’s ginger beer in the fridge,
and bright-coloured lollies in jars.
The veranda creaks.
It’s made of old roof beams.
And the wind gauge
(although few know it)
has been dropped,
then put up again.
Watching everyone examine it,
frowning and nodding their heads,
it’s hard not to smile.
The bell in the hall rings
and oaky voices tell the same jokes.
Rain scribbles itself across the water,
so we strap up in red plastic jackets.
Tell ourselves
we’re not getting old when
they don’t look so bright
anymore.
But sometimes
there is money
there is time
gathered in the corners
like shadows.
Groups and boards and meetings
Want more rent
Want our land
Want a restaurant
Want
Us
Gone
And I wonder how long we will be here,
and what it will feel like
when this old building
falls

and is

gone.