Peter Sharp Memorial Award and Commended - Junior Section

St Mary's College

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Morning Stars

The morning stars shine like silver petals,
glistening through gaps in the canopy.
Feeling so close, yet, so far.

Whispers of damp air,
wind around tree trunks,
tickling them.
Sunlight filters through dark trees,
printing shadows on the ground.

Lanky limbs,
tall and slender,
reaching up to the morning sun.
Shadows fall onto uneven earth.
Dawn stretches over the forest,
as the sun rises.

Rustling for gold

The morning breathes new life,
into the forest.
Ferns uncurl to greet the day,
crisp light shines.
Early morning love.

Trees are lungs of the earth,
the forest breathes as one.
In and out.
Oxygen flows,
giving life to all creatures,
big and small.

Small animals chitter and chirp, gossip and share,
rustling for gold under rocks and logs, for breakfast.

Silence

The morning is broken into silence.
Everything is on edge, waiting, for the action.
And a single tree falls.

Listen to the Trees

Listen to the trees.
Ancient old stories,
twisted trunks,
gnarly roots,
burrowing deep under rich earth.
Birds whistle a sweet song,
trees dance at the birds’ tune.
Rhythmic swaying,
bending limbs.
Tangled leaves brush against the sky,
twisting and turning,
like a,
graceful dancer,
on the stage.

Bare branches are the lines on the paper of the sky.
Puffy clouds paint pictures.
White horses rear,
dragons dance
up on the easel
of the sky.

This is what they used to say, used to do.
Its broken now, by them.

Disrespecting the History

Minuscule humans come,
trampling on roots,
disrespecting history in this place.
They come,
with cameras and tape,
marking off areas and
taking photos,
ready to
clear the land.
They don’t understand,
how much these trees have suffered,
have seen,
have celebrated.
Smoke in the air,
wild fires raging,
passing as quickly as they started.
The beauty of sunsets,
and the allusive aurora,
vibrant colours swirling.
Winds rushing through valleys,
so strong that,
roots hug the earth,
holding on for dear life,
until the wind passes.
Special trees are chosen,
for mighty eagles to,
build nests and
raise young,
chosen for the job to
protect the
hatchlings.

They come.

They come,
axes in hand,
with cold hearts,
and brutal force,
to take away the diverse world,
to build their own homes.
Bloodthirsty and cruel,
taking away what is known as home,
to many creatures,
only to build their own.

Selfish and unkind,
they don’t care about the history of the forest.
The time it took to grow.
Many endless days and dreamless nights,
of putting all power into the growth of a
single
leaf.

They cut and haul,
grasping memories,
and time,
in iron fists.
They come.

Collapsing Homes

Trees wait and pray,
waiting for their turns to die.
Animals left to run,
flee,
and hide,
for their lives.
Strangled screams echo around,
as branches fall and
trunks
crash
down.
Collapsing homes.
Sobbing and strangled gasps as
the elder trees,
fall.
It's begun;
the beginning of the end.
Trees that used to dance,
are from the past.
The trees cannot dance anymore.
The gorgeous skies that brought new song have been forgotten.

The history in this place is forgotten,
and trampled under
a steal-cap
boot.

The giants are gone.

It's over,
humans have won.
Giants are gone.
The storytellers that whispered memories,
passing on history to the new growth below.
The giants,
taller than clouds,
stronger than stone,
older than time.
The giants are gone,
and only a
stump forest
remains.

Revenge

The elements feel pain and
the hunger for revenge.
The clouds wail.
The winds scream.
The river roars,
twisting and turning around sharp bends,
white water frothing.
The river rages,
the storm strains to be released.

The trees that remain,
stretch above the clouds,
thrashing and bending,
wanting revenge on
murderers.
Thunder bellows hollow anguish and
white fury,
across the barren land,
for all to hear.
Lightning strikes,
ashing out with clawed fingers,
reaching out,
trying to grab the miniature humans,
sitting safe in their cities,
to claim their lives forever.
Whips crack across the sky,
sharp bite threatening to kill,
lighting up the sky like,
angry fireworks.

A bitter evening descended,
over the graveyard,
of the forest.

A New Beginning

The rain stops.
The fog lifts.
The remaining trees become still.
The thunder rolls away to
haunt something else.
Quiet,
still.
Too quiet.
Too still.

The rich smell of revenge still hangs
around in the humid air,
but it’s calmer.
The raw pain,
of the massacre,
is still there,
but it’s fading.
Nothing can be undone,
the forest is accepting fate,
but its healing.
Hollow-eyed,
trees begin to,
regrow;
restart.

Scar of the Past

New buds curl upwards,
growing from elders before.
Small sprouts growing from
the remaining stumps.

The animals have gone,
but there is still hope,
for the forest.

There is a feeling,
the pain won’t be for
evermore.

The forest will regrow,
regrowing from a
scar of the past.

Regrowth (many moon cycles later)

Giants tower up
into the clouds.
Wildflowers produce
a delicate aroma.
The chorus of
birds and insects,
echoes around,
winding through
trees and,
under logs.
Butterflies flitter from
wildflower
to
wildflower,
leaving a trail of
perfumes.

The scent of a forest,
is a combination of,
earthy, woody and
herbal aromas.
Different layers of scent,
intermingle to,
create a,
rich experience.

The old stumps,
are still there,
covered in moss,
and age,
and time.
Ghosts of the past.

This is the history,
being passed on,
from the elder trees;
the first trees to regrow,
from The Clearing,
onto the young saplings.

The forest is a
community of
knowledge.
A diversity of,
history and
time.
The old stumps are the,
only reminders,
of the past.

This is the Forest of Time.