2025 Fenland Poet Laureate Awards: Winners and shortlisted entries

2025 Fenland Poet Laureate Award

• First place: I know what the fizmer says, by Felix Dawson
• Runner-up: Starter Home, by Toni Fell
• Third prize: Elysian Fields, by Paul Dance
• Shortlisted: I'm Home, by Matthew Gilbert
• Shortlisted: Fen Road, by Betty Hasler
• Shortlisted: I say that I'm from Cambridge, by Catherine Blake

2025 Young Fenland Poet Laureate Award

• First place: When, by Isla Jackson
• Runner-up: Nightime Mystery, by Meredith Killick
• Third prize: SKYSCAPE, by Tilly Myers
• Shortlisted: Fenland, by Luka Kant
• Shortlisted: Kindness, by Shyla Brown
• Shortlisted: Four seasons stargazing, by Lydia Shillings

I know what the fizmer says, by Felix Dawson

When I was young, the plough would turn huge clods

of earth, their shining sillion faces cut

like marble cake as big as drums. We'd heave

the lumps and stack them tall and dress the ugly

jagged men with scarves and hats.

Once, I met

a boy with a maggot on a string, 'diddling' for eels

by the banks of the Lark. You can see their little lips,

he says, poking out the holes (- I can't). You don't need

a hook for eels, he says. They won't let go the maggot.

At Lakenheath, a bittern whoompf!s about the air,

so cold it nearly stalls. The frigid river, turgid, swells

and I stand on the riverbank, surveying all the reclaimed

land beneath the long, long open skies.

On the breeze,

below the tip of my nose is a definite whiff of gorgeous,

gorgeous, wind-blown, peat. Stern like cocoa, soft like coal,

rich like coffee and EARTHY like the black mud I know

it is, it lingers    in the frisky air. Sweet, like iced tea.

I smile and run to ground the earthworks dug and swept into

a tall new bank, black as dunes and fine as powder snow.

I lift a handful, sift a handful, like I'm winnowing the wheat.

I lift a handful, squeeeze a handful, that clags a ball like clay.

I giggle as I lift a handful, FILL my mouth full suck the dirt between my teeth!

It cinches down around my gums like when you bite down

at the dentists on that blue mould that casts your teeth.

It's soft and thick and light and black and fades to grains

like candy floss. It melts away like chocolate, tastes like

rust and earth and snow. I spit the pips and hear the fizmer say,

you're home.

Starter Home, by Toni Fell

A road pocked with houses,

caked in mud and mangled potato,

rattled by tractors at five, quiet at ten,

agitating the dog.

We built it, brick by brick,

the house that the sand-soil blew in.

Choking orange seasoned the windowsills

and the underside of curtains.

We planted our garden,

broccoli heads creaked first words into Fenland wind,

English plums with skin mottled pink like yours

and dark pits for eyes like mine.

Then came the blight and rot,

seedlings withered away.

Plums fell, bruised and decaying,

crying pesticides.

Elysian Fields, by Paul Dance

This bucolic view of England

Haystacks in the field

Like fives on a playground.

Horses, heads down

Stubbs imitating Giacometti

And corn ripening hundreds of acres,

a slow blonding of England

All this is perpetual mirage,

the nettles, stinging, ugly 

put iron in the fields' souls

The daisies the pretty opportunists of nature

Growing where the grass assets have been stripped

The corn, the farmer's bondage

To the land

The hay his gamble on the weather

Which plays with him, threatening rain

Always at just the wrong moment

The nimble nimbus pose in summer's shooting skies

And, in a while, the autumn

The mud, wind and shortdays

until the mirage again

next summer

I'm Home, by Matthew Gilbert

As I look along the endless drove,

Surrounded by fields of black,

Infinite sky rising to the heavens,

Reeds bowing to their mother's voice.

I see Eostre emerging from the eerie roke,

Expelling frosty tendrils of winter past,

Ushering in the shoots of spring,

And reclaiming her rightful throne.

A ghost soundlessly skims dewy banks,

Still crisp with the touch of Jack.

It's spectral cry showing winter is still not dead,

And beckons in the blow.

As I look along the endless drove,

I am home.

Fen Road, by Betty Hasler

I enter The Fens on a straight road, ruler rigid,

stuck up above the earth, an endless bridge.

I drive for hours through indistinguishable flatness,

past acres of winter wheat, sugar beet, potato clamps, portaloos, 

where a solitary tractor drags gulls along furrows of black silt;

through what once was called the Isle of Ely, land of space and water,

where now pylons compete for sky with the cathedral spire,

where drainage pipes have destroyed the ancient demesne of the bittern

and only an occasional mallard leaps suddenly from a dyke.

This is now Marshland: wide, empty, once remote enough to lose a treasure,

now inhabited by those in bungalows alarmed by the startling roars of overhead jets.

I drive through purple clouds simulating distant mountain ranges.

On the right symmetrical queues of trees lead to the Wash,

which creeps across mud and seeps into salty creeks;

where thousands of strident geese fly across the moon, 

where cattle graze on the sea bank among the dead bodies of sea birds,

discarded plastic bags balloon in the wind

and a lone seal raises its head above the grey waves.

This is the corner of three counties, where lined-out villages converge

into huddles round ancient wool-rich churches.

I join the tailback at the swing bridge, crawl across the deep brown sluggish river,

see boats perched at angles in mud, hear a timber ship hoot to warn of its approach.

The road is heading north to the land beyond the Nene where they sharpen their vowels

and look down on fenland folk from a slight bump they call a hill.

And now the road changes gear, slows, turns ninety degrees this way, then that,

begins to heave itself up and down as if to rid itself of something.

The landscape shakes its head and re-forms itself into the commonplace.

I say that I'm from Cambridge, by Catherine Blake

I say that I'm from Cambridge

It makes me sound quite smart

As if I spend my weekends sipping fizz, perusing art

It sounds like I go punting

On the cam, in summer sun

When in truth I shout at students while I eat my Chelsea bun

I say that I'm from March

But no one knows where it's located

It's had a little glow up, which was probably belated

It's got a lovely river

If you want a bit of peace

Well, it's peaceful if you don't have problems with aggressive geese.

I don't say that I'm from Wisbech

I say that I'm from Ely

Theologically astounding

It has a lovely Waitrose, next to B&M - quite grounding

It's nice to look at

All the lovely houses in the city

And dream of what you'd buy if property prices weren't...... rubbish.

I say that I'm from Fenland

It's interminably flat

With lots of open space available to swing your cat

The summers here are glorious

There's lots of sugar beet

And the locals are quite friendly, if you don't mention webbed feet

When, by Isla Jackson

When you're nine, you worry about who will play ponies with you, and who can do the most cartwheels.

You don't worry about safety, and the dangers your home life may offer.

You don't worry about ailments, and quarantine, and hygiene.

When you're nine, you relocate, away from the bustling, craziness, the hubbub -

To a tranquil, vast and continuous land. A land of solitude and privacy.

When you're ten, you don't know if online learning will ever be enough, and if you will ever be able to make friends,

You look out the frosted window, to see the deer bounding joyously across the fields,

And hear the birds warbling, a harmony that inspires peace.

When you're flying down the road on your scooter, playing imaginary secret agent games with your sister, and posing for artistic photoshoots led by your older brother,

And realise that it will all work out in the end.

When you're eleven, you start your new school, which is scary.

But it's okay, because on the way there, you soar down the bumpy roads, windows down

Watching all the nature - deer, kestrels, voles, rabbits, hares, horses

And the landscape - rolling fields, glistening rivers, crimson trees, rain droplets, fluffy clouds

It's peace, and brings you joy that quells your nerves.

When you're twelve, you start to struggle,

To glimpse the fissures through other people's facades. They hurt you, and you think they hate you.

But it's tolerable, because you've got a quaint town,

Where cars are tractors, and houses are barns, and a road is footpath,

And the sky is the limit.

At thirteen, school starts the threats:

Exams this, exams that. And everyone expects you to achieve the highest grades, to fly above them all,

Like the kites that circle above their prey,

Except, you are the prey, and the girls are the ones circling.

It's all about fame and popularity,

Not frosted fields and rainy mornings.

At fourteen, you find your true friends,

The ones that believe in you, and like you for you,

But they don't.

It's like watching piglets with their mother; the runt is always left behind.

You are the runt, the one left to suffer in silence, and eventually die.

You're fifteen now, and have been through more than any fifteen year old should have to go through.

You've loved, lost, helped, and hurt.

Everyone scrolls past those who are struggling -

Merely because they are bored. But if they stopped

And glanced over their screens, they would realise that life isn't about the likes and the comments,

But about solidarity, and friendship, and joy,

And that joy is shown through nature,

The foxes, badgers and hedgehogs all survive in the same space without destruction -

So why can't we?

Nightime Mystery, by Meredith Killick

As the sun sets across the plains,

Darkness rules over as queen.

While night takes the reins,

All forms of life leave the scene.

Not a sound is heard across the marsh,

As the shadows of all forms, tree, crop and roadkill stand tall.

The moon beams send light through the roads,

The Nocturnals wake up and start sending their codes.

Hoots and howls echo across the fields,

Natural or supernatural is what no one knows.

Are the rustle of leaves across the hayfield fox or other?

A glimpse of movement across the miles of flatness blur with the shadows

All while the stars above send their flashes of warnings to those who can see them.

As dawn comes, the mist rolls over,

The fog blocking out the morning,

Wildlife becoming silent as if in mourning.

What happens at night in the fens will always be a mystery,

Apart from the supernatural who were there.

SKYSCAPE, by Tilly Myers

An abundance of land,

as far as the eye can see.

The great absence of rolling hills,

as the heavens unfold above me.

Orange and magenta paint the sky,

elegantly embellished with a sparse stippling of white.

Beautifully intricate patterns decorate the view,

with swirling mists from day till night.

Rugged roads that twist and turn,

Chased by snaking, flowing rivers and streams.

The sprewling fields surround me,

the farmers' hard earned crops swaying in the breeze.

Early morning sunbeams reflecting on the water,

Swirling, glistening diamonds sparkle across the surface.

Gentle, warm breezes and billows of cold wind,

and small gentle raindrops that fall at my feet.

Fenland, by Luka Kant

The horizon seems to vanish

into endless fields and quiet waters.

A thin fog clings to the earth

Slowly lifting as the day begins.

The water is everywhere

in streams, in dykes, in ponds

its surface reflecting the light

of a place where time is frozen

The Earth is soft here

and the space stretches wide

empty but filled with life

in its own quiet way.

Cattle trodding slowly across the grass

their steps quiet on the soft ground

Birds flying above

their winds cutting through the fresh air

In Fenland the world is calm

no stress, no noise

just the land and sky

the water and the wind.

Kindness, by Shyla Brown

Kindness is something we all

should spread,

To those who are alive or

those who are dead.

I live in a small town

called Newton in the isle

it's always such a pleasure

to see my neighbours smile.

Kindness comes in many shapes

and forms

we have to look out for

each other

when its storms

A smile, a wave, a compliment

a kind gesture, or even a

letter

can change someone day so much

so for the better.

Four seasons stargazing, by Lydia Shillings

On a clear fen night,

Take a minute to look and spot.

The characters are all there,

You make up the plot.

A mighty dragon,

Snakes across the sky.

Swimming so free

in the black waves so high.

Mercury glistens, and Venus shines.

Giggling and joking,

Gazing down at the pines.

The great mother bear,

Points her nose to the north.

Her baby's paw on Polaris,

Throwing it back and forth.

As below, lambs are born and crops sown,

This is the sky in spring.

Neptune and Pluto,

Both distant glows.

Meanwhile centre stage,

The mighty Hercules shows.

His stance so bold, sword in hand.

Stood eager, stood ready

To defend our flat land.

Flying over his head,

A graceful swan soars.

Wings spread wide,

She flies with great force.

As below bathed in warmth, the crops still grow.

This is the sky in summer.

A white winged horse,

Gallops through the dark.

His silky mane streams,

His path a gentle arc.

He leaps over Saturn,

As the gas giant looks on.

Capture its beauty,

Before it's all gone.

Rings of rock, ice, and cloud,

Shared too with another.

Uranus always forgotten,

Yet is Saturn's handsome brother.

The harvest in our fields,

Reflected by the plough.

The seven starred machine,

Bootes pushes, mopping his brow.

As below leaves fall, and the crops slowly go.

This is the sky in autumn.

As the nights turn cold,

Jupiter appears.

Its warm, orange glow,

Soothes and banishes all fears.

Gathered all around,

The Pleiades sisters chat.

Every one an opal blue,

Their faces gleaming down at the flat.

Orion the courageous,

A brave warrior here too.

His hound ever loyal,

Canis Major stands strong and true.

Our nearest neighbour,

So close yet so far.

Mars winks cheekily,

Almost there we certainly are.

As below frost crunches, maybe even snow.

This the sky in winter.

Four seasons of stories,

Many more to be told.

Above the beautiful fens,

Lies legends of old.