Highly commended in the grade 5/6 section – Nina Pahari’s “Wonderful Wetlands!

Wonderful Wetlands! 

by Nina Pahari of Bellerive Primary School

black swan copy
Croaking, swimming, 
Hopping in the wooded swamps. 
Yellow, brown, green and gold. 
Newly born tadpoles frantically flipping in the murky water. 
Frogs of the wetlands 
Graceful, elegant, 
Some gliding, some drifting. 
Plunging their long necks into the water, hoping to find food. 
Look up ahead!
Hundreds of them, flying towards the rain. 
Swans of the wetlands 
Stretching tall, 
Swaying gently in the breeze, 
Trying to grow higher than the sun. 
Birds plucking them out one by one to build their nests. 
Reeds of the wetlands. 
Paddling slowly through the still water. 
Small, cockroach-like body scrambling over pebbles. 
Scurrying to find shelter, 
Waiting to be prey. 
Waterbugs of the wetlands. 
These are just some of the many wonderful things that make up our wetlands. 

Runner-up for grades 3/4 – Jasmine Cooper’s poem “Wetlands (Land of Wet)”

Wetland

by Jasmine Cooper

of Taroona Primary School

Filamentous algae on saltmarsh

The land of wet
I call it,
I hear
the beasties in the
wet
boggy
mud.
The soil
slowly
melts into
my toes
the cold,
wet
water is creeping
into my body
while the
insects
thrive
on the
moisture
in the
air.
On
the
misty mornings
the damp
mist lures the
frogs
into the water,
the wildlife and
the plants
are
flourishing,
the environment supports all the life in the wetlands
this is the wetland environment 

And congratulations to the overall winner of the grades 7/8/9 section, Tess Harkin!

reflections

by Tess Harkin

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

the sky is reflected here –

the horizon spreads to endless depths

under the stillness of the surface.

 

a mirror –

of clear, clear blue,

of dreaming and tire swings hanging from trees

on long summer’s afternoons

that stretch

in the quiet golden sunshine,

to meet the dusk –

dusk filled with mosquitoes

and citronella candles, and

bare feet slapping on the deck and down the path,

kicking up sand over the dunes

and tracking it back into the house.

grit between cold sheets on hot nights.

 

or of a brooding, pensive grey

that broils and stews silently,

sheltered by shadows of trees that line the water,

trees that reach reflections across

to join hands with those stuck

on other sides of the bank,

where their roots sink into mud –

like toes

on that long-ago beach,

where we played,

made mud pies and threw them

at each other and the trees,

where they’d hit,

leaving a bullseye, then

a fresh trail of mud

where they slid, snail-like,

to the ground.