A poem from Maisie Bromfield, Yr 12, the winner of the Poetry Competition.

Environmental Themed Writing- Blue Satin Bows by Maisie Bromfield

Back in my day the rivers ran clear. On a calm day I’d watch the white bait dance beneath the mirror surface gliding weight with hands eager to touch the heart of autumn. In summer, with bare feet cushioned by luscious emerald green grass, my cousins and I would run down to the stream without the fear of getting sick. To dry, we would lie in the fields of gold, rolling hills for miles with a shed here and a cottage there, spread across the country as thin as the marmite we spread on our toasts. I’d start every day with a deep breath, it tasted like the promise of rain to nurture our crops, the promise of clear skies of blue like the satin bows my sister Anne wore in her hair on Sundays.

Growing up, I know our world is broken. I step outside to concrete jungles, the tigers roar a revving engine, the trees replaced by office blocks that tower menacing over us. I hear stories of streams that run clear, and once in a blue moon I’ll happen upon one. I'll dance in diamond dusted waters and laughter bubbles forth but there is always a niggling thought at the back of my mind. Listen hear it whispers, breathe it in the river murmurs. And then I remember why. The concrete jungle is inching forward like a cat towards a takahe, the sweltering blanket of smog is stretching with smoky tendrils across the skies and I know, I know my children won’t see this if we continue as we are.

I have betrayed my children. Stolen from them the beauty that they didn’t even get the chance to know. The streams are gone, clear or grungy it makes no difference for we once flowed mighty hour of family fishing bonding, of summer swims and prosperous futures that weeps only trickles. Factories belch forth, great clouds of dread, and the air I once savored is no longer safe to breathe without filtration.

My grandparents tell me stories of their green childhood. We swam in the rivers they say, we rolled in green grass, enjoyed balmy summers and shivering winters they say. I think they are lying. Liars. I don’t believe them, I can’t believe them, because if I did I’d have to resent them. If it’s the truth, then they have robbed me of my heritage. I don’t know what stable weather patterns are, I don’t know clean waters and fishing and snow and the city of Venice. They don’t exist, they can’t have existed because my family wouldn’t do this to me, would they?

My parents are my hero’s. I begged with eyes terrified of loosing natural wonders. Applaud with hands already forgetting the feel of fairy dust sprinkled snow. And you listen. You heard my cries and added your own and together we saved this world. My kids can swim in streams, they can run through fields of green, feel the sun shine on their skin and they can breathe. They can breathe. Everyday their lungs expand with the sweet air of freedom, of hope exceeded and dreams come true. My parents are heroes.

The rivers run clear. On a calm day I watch the whitebait dance beneath the mirror surface, lying with wait with hands eager to touch the heart of autumn. In summer, with bare feet cushioned by luscious emerald green grass my cousins and I run down to the stream and splash around without fear of getting sick. To dry, we lie in the fields of gold, rolling hills for miles with a shed here a cottage there spread across the country as thin as the marmite we spread on our toasts. I start each day with a deep breath. It tastes of the promise of rain to nurture our crops, the promise of clear skies of blue like satin bows my great aunt once wore in her hair.