Their Door

I’m back at their door. I am looking at their door.
I am looking harder at their door than I have ever done.

Paint is curling from it. It looks like a lamb’s fleece.
The brass number 3 has not been polished for months.

I can only recognise part of myself in it. Who am I?
I am still looking at the door. Look, the fox

still holds his tail high and as usual, his claws
are ready to pounce and snatch. No point in knocking.

Now it is dusk and I am still outside, staring at the door.
Dew begins to light the grass with its tiny beacons but

not the door. I know I want to see the door open.
I know what I want to see behind the door because

I want to see two beaming faces with a look of me,
arms outstretched. I want to see two beaming faces

with the look of me, arms outstretched.
I know the door will not open but I‘m still here

standing on the doorstep in this cold, endless night.

- Pat Borthwick
Highly Commended Poet, The TRYangle Project Poetry Competition 2011

Secret

This is our secret place, just you and I.
What fun we are having, we giggle all day
while snug in the bracken together we lie.

We may spot a lark, like a speck in the sky
till it snaps out of sight and the song drifts away.
This is our secret place, just you and I:

hidden, we see the red fox slinking by
and watch spiders weaving silk traps for their prey
while snug in the bracken together we lie.

The hours are too short here; how quickly they fly.
I’ll bring apples and chocolate, then we can stay
all night in our secret place, just you and I -

come under the shelter: no need to ask why.
The red sky will darken then bleach into grey
while snug in the bracken together we lie.

No need to tell Mummy, for Mummy might cry
then bad men would come and take Daddy away.
This must be our secret place, just you and I:
Sshh - quiet in the bracken, together we lie.

- Anne Ballard
Highly Commended Poet, The TRYangle Project Poetry Competition 2011

Punchbag

Ah used tae join in even,
when Ma was launching into him,
thought he was shan, weak, pathetic,
an empty shirt blown in the wind.

She’d be aw smiles ootside the hoose
but inside it would all kick off.
It was later I began tae ken
a punchbag has a strength enough,

a braw courage to absorb
that anger hurled day after day
and hold safe frae the ricochet
my sneering sisters and me.

It’s only now I ken
that accepting the jags and burling shoves,
just as the need tae inflict them,
show a girning kind of love.

- Simon Jackson
Third Prize Winner, The TRYangle Project Poetry Competition 2011

Apology

- Jenny Donnison

First Prize Winner, The TRYangle Project Poetry Competition 2011