Isabella Mead: ‘Balloon’

The war years: when women could harness the moon,
Gran in her twenties, blue overalls,
ran the winch for the launch of barrage balloons,
handling steel cables and aligning the wires

to steady the kites and bridle the sky.
They were women filling bags of hydrogen,
carefully calibrating the fuse,
women with callused hands and coarse jokes,

and having the last laugh at the news:
“these are the WAAFs, those sturdy types
whom we looked upon as cut out solely
for gym mistresses and mothers-in-law.”

The GIs don’t think so, giggled Gran’s naughtier
little sister, as they wafted with WAAFS
down to the town hall on Friday nights
for jitterbug and jive and more perhaps.

By D-Day the balloons had been released,
held a peacetime party in the clouds.
The men came back, birds looped the sky,
Gran got married, and looked at the moon.

Now Mum is holding the ropes.
She diminishes signs of untethering:
double-locks the front door, turns off the gas,
does not mention any grandchildren.

Is Alec back yet from birdwatching?
No, Mum, it has been seven years now.
Mum is holding Gran’s gaze keenly,
believing the truth can earth her still.

The cables are strained, she can feel them
slipping. Is Alec back from birdwatching?
Mum’s hands are callused. Yes, Mum, soon.
She starts giving out a little slack each time,

marking places along the wires, and the sky,
until peacetime, and the balloon can fly.

Shortlisted Poems:

Carolyn Selman: ‘Mother of Pearl’

An egret, stilt-legged, statue-still
makes a sudden snatch.
A little splash, a pale flash of prey—
the glint on a worn blade.

Time falls away like peel,
I’m in the garden, four years old,
my grandfather holds out a bright
green apple, grips his pocket knife,
its handle, mother of pearl.
“Who’s Pearl’s father?”
He laughs. Unclasped, the notched
blade reflects sunlight. Deftly
he carves round and around
the apple. I watch it spin, entranced
as the green ribbon lengthens
into a twisted spiral, falls
in one long fragile piece,
a soft weight netted in my hands.

A sudden gleam
and a memory breaks the surface
then water closes over it again. 

Hilary Keightley-Hanson: ‘My father’

Held the saddle of my bike.
He said
I’m here. I’ve got you safe. Now you can go.

And so I rode off, carefree, into life,
Strong in the knowledge of his loving care.

I held my father’s dying hand.
I said
I’m here. I’ve got you safe. Now you can go.

Simon Alderwick: ‘the game’

my daughter holds 
a red building block to her cheek,
says: “hello.” i pick up 
another brick, say: “hello.”
“no daddy,” she says, taking my hand, 
“you’re in London.” 
she walks me to the bedroom; 
goes out; closes the door. 
i put my ear 
to the receiver of the block. 
i can hear her thru the door. 
“hello.” 
“i miss you.” 
“when are you coming home?” 
i tell her soon. i tell her 
i’m on the airplane. i break down 
the bedroom door. holding 
my arms out like an airplane; 
fly around the front room; 
land in the front garden; 
run to the front door.
my daughter runs to me. 
i hold 
her in my arms. 
it’s a silly game 
but it feels good 
to make a game of it 
at last.

Jenny Suthrell: ‘Diane and her Lion’

She entered through the dining room door on a lion.
(My uncle Bart draped in some huge, old yellow thing he’d found heaven knows where.)

This was after lunch, the table still littered with torn crackers, gravy stains 
and pearls of dark purple jelly, pudding dobs, a half empty blue jug of vanilla custard…

She wore a petal pink flouncy frock and a tinsel crown with a star that lopsed more and more sideways with their antics,
six-year-old cheeks with bright pink spots as she squealed with joy,

goading her lion with a batter whisk into growling and swaying from side to side with the occasional threatening roar.
We watched, helpless with laughter, replete with lunch, warm and lit up outside and in.

We’d thought to walk but the sky was grim and all of us, I think, won’t regret the walk not taken.
We’ll remember the sweetness of this winter afternoon
With Diane and her ‘lion’.

Highly Commended Poems:

David Birtwistle: ‘Da and Me on the Innishfael Road’

Peter Borchers: ‘Sentences’

Vanessa Lampert: ‘Happy Family Soliloquy’

Richard Meier: ‘The Gathering’

Cecilia Nstompa: ‘A Blessing for My Son’

Jon Stone: ‘Astray’