Violet Dench, (c) 2010


Her records                old and scratched
                                                                are here
her black dress from Paris
 the shoes with the Louis heels
her head-scarves       earrings                beads
                                   she hasn't gone.
Look, there are her roses    hand-made
                                   red as ruby wine
the Chagall and Matisse prints
                                   how can she leave?
Here are her music books                 worn-covered
                                   her imprint on them all.
Her piano                   water-stained
                                   by this blue Chinese vase
                                   we'll hear again.

The beach front at Brighton
                                   she'll promenade still
be patient
one evening warm and calm
we'll see her
in the distance
                                                         waving.


NIGHT CROSSING

Jean Harvey

Winner of the 2010 Chanctonbury Cup


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 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 a 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 the 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 abroad
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 that 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.