2010 West Sussex Competition

Results

                                  Winner & recipient of the Chanctonbury Cup

                                          Jean Harvey - Horsham - 'Night Crossing' 

                                                                  The winning poem                                  

                                                                   NIGHT CROSSING

                                                                   by Jean Harvey

                                                                    Long-ago nights
                                                                    when the moon and stars were set
                                                                    in a black glass sea becalmed
                                                                    and the cold hung wide
                                                                    to curtain off our corner of the world —
                                                                    no wind — no rain — no cloud
                                                                    and wakeful in my bunk —
                                                                    a child-size matchbox in the darkness below decks
                                                                    I listened — listened — listened out
                                                                    for the crack of frost tormenting an old tree —
                                                                    its naked mast and random rigging stiff
                                                                    crusted hard with ice.

                                                                    Uncounted phantoms walked a diamond plank
                                                                    I mapped their shadows — plotted other dreams
                                                                    but sleep remained an island too far off
                                                                    the waters inbetween deep-frozen
                                                                    and I could not thaw their grip.

                                                                    Each breath expanded sharp inside my lungs —
                                                                    drained heat away and left an ache —
                                                                    I shivered — shuddered — shrank beneath
                                                                    the weight of Mother’s best brown fur —
                                                                    the coat she’d thrown across me for more warmth —
                                                                    thick beaver lamb grown heavy as a coffin lid —
                                                                    it anchored — crushed me still as stone.

                                                                    A wall away I heard staid timbers move —
                                                                    a creak — a silence — followed by a groan
                                                                    and then the sound repeated — seeming more
                                                                    deliberate — gained momentum— its knocking grew
                                                                    becoming rhythmic — rowers keeping time
                                                                    their oars more urgent as the seconds passed —
                                                                    I heard the current slap — the plunge — the rasp
                                                                    of breath — the stifled yells not quite suppressed
                                                                    from under starchy sheets — before the thud —
                                                                    a hull hauled up a long-complaining beach.

                                                                    In the lull recovery was shushed
                                                                    to waves withdrawing — smoothing — turning round
                                                                    leaving rocks to dry alone — untouched
                                                                    I heard that silence lengthen — felt it stretch
                                                                    until their snores rose up like wheeling gulls
                                                                    throats hoarse as mourners at a private wake.

                                                                    *****

                                                                   These nights I drift and trawl a mill pond calm —
                                                                   where older skies allow each breath to leave
                                                                   a blameless vapour trail —
                                                                   some vague regret — one late unravelling of sympathy
                                                                   for those short crossings made in dead of night —
                                                                   and me the stowaway not meant to hear such things —
                                                                   too young for pity then — no sense of sacrifice
                                                                   or peace — uneasy — made at any price.

                                                                   For now — when darkness brings a bitter chill 
                                                                   that infiltrates — slowly seeps aboard
                                                                   through every crack — I listen — half afraid
                                                                   I’ve brought those echoes with me — packed the past
                                                                   in some salt-battered trunk stowed tight beneath
                                                                   whatever bed the weather finds me in —
                                                                   the fur skin tight across me with its smell —
                                                                   that fusty reek of Guards cheap filter tips —
                                                                   until the beat begins — the rock and roll
                                                                   of headboard against wall and grinding springs —
                                                                   the rub of wood and metal harsh with noise —
                                                                   the creak of oars across that sea — again.

Judith Cair has kindly provided the following comments on each of the poems listed above. Our sincere thanks to Judith for both judging and providing an insight into her thoughts about each of the successful submissions.