Past Winners

2009

Northumbria, All But In Name
by Laurie Atkinson

A kingdom where violence was currency,
Where blood ran, free as wine,
Where a king could live a year or two,
Before butchered by the next in line
 
Originally in two different parts,
For strength, they did unite,
And what next, you may ask me,
Well, they started to fight!
 
With Mercia south, the Picts North,
And Britons everywhere,
You'd think they'd just have buried the hatchet,
Given up in despair.
 
But nay my friend, twas not to be,
This land was always game,
For a century Bamburgh was capital,
Of England, all but in name.
 
Yet war did not fuel this land,
Its culture was nothing to mock,
From north and south came trade,
To that fortress upon the rock.
 
St Oswald and Aidan brought faith here,
Those pagan beliefs, they were banned,
And from this ''Cradle of Christianity",
God's word spread throughout the land.
 
Yet dark days awaited this people,
For when the conquerors looked back,
They realised, the whole kingdom,
Was collapsing behind their back.
 
Brother fought brother, the kingdom decayed,
Their enemies gorged on their weakness,
A great leader was needed to rally the people,
But, of that, stock was growing ever less.
 
Next on the scene were the Vikings,
Those axe wielders caused much dismay,
At first they just pillaged the chapels,
Then they started to stay!
 
For years and years they fought to survive,
Clinging on for dear life,
But even with enemies closing in,
Bamburgh stood  amidst the strife.
 
It was not till the coming of Normans,
That this great kingdom fell,
Though the first blow was at Hastings,
This land was soon gone as well.
 
Could this kingdom of culture and faith,
Have been engulfed at last
No, it braved many more a century,
This kingdom's time had not past.
 
For even now it proudly lives on,
It's acquired different fame,
With angels, castles and bridges too,
Northumbria, all but in name.
 



2008

THE RIVER TYNE

Two khaki veins of river slither in a trance,
The first bubbles on the Scottish border in a rhythmical lavish dance,
The other sprouts at Alston Moor over shoals of tails and fins,
And the two flow down towards Hexham, merging like Siamese twins.

Then, at this point at Warden’s Rock, I, the Tyne am born.
I gingerly, gently crawl along like a new-born baby fawn.
Yet, I am not a deer for long nor any creature of that kind;
A sturdy cobra slices through my blood and my mind.
Reptilian features bombard my soul but I’m an un-noticed eel;
Such a unique fish, no-one knows exactly how I feel.

I snake my way through the North-East, as for centuries I’ve done,
I’m present day and night reflecting the moon, the stars, the sun.
And I watch my county form about me, morphed and warped by time
But I’m too big a challenge to mould; I stay, stubborn, the mighty Tyne.

I glide under famous bridges but I am not adored.
Instead these steely walkways are praised
And their glory, they selfishly hoard.
None seems to realise what, without the Tyne, these bridges would be,
For not one of them would be even there, if it wasn’t for me.
But sadly, though I may be strong, immortal I am not.

Soon, I know, I must die as part of nature’s plot.
I know when I reach Tynemouth, I’ll be unleashed into the sea
And I’ll slowly drown, suffocate softly, the way it was meant to be.

By Hayley Simpson aged 11 years