George Crabbe Poetry Competition 2025 – 2nd Prize
Adjudicator: Elizabeth Cook
Some impulse drew us to the pauper’s graves.
Our worn-out shoes scuffed over uneven ground
to stare at the simple stones of Potter’s field.
We held our breath watching the soil
rise upwards – tentative at first – then frantic
like the fallout from wartime shells.
Hands appeared: farm-work gnarled,
wash-house rough – a carpenter’s without a thumb –
a child’s with nails bitten to the quick.
Next came their heads: lice-shaved, pox scarred,
scragged-back bun, sunken-nosed syphilitic,
pickle-faced alcoholic, teeth missing –
teeth as rotten as year-old potatoes,
mouths that spat soil and flints
before they could breathe in our polluted air.
Inch by inch their hands gained purchase –
struggled – pushed – until some stood.
A hunchback helped a boy with rheumy eyes,
an amputee bent to lift a woman dressed in black,
cradling a child. There were handshakes, hugs.
And then they turned as one
like long grass bending before the wind.
We closed our eyes unable to bear
their looks of understanding.
Copyright © 2025 Fran Reader