Falmouth Poetry Group has announced the winners of the Shorelines poetry competition, run in collaboration with the Falmouth Packet. They are Christopher Warren-Adamson, 71, of Arundel in Sussex, and Morag Smith, 49, of Stithians.

The competition’s judge, the renowned Falmouth-based poet Penelope Shuttle, said: “I was really pleased with the quality and range of the entries – there is clearly a great deal of poetic talent in the Falmouth area, and it was also wonderful to see how the competition stimulated memories of the town among people who grew up here but have moved away. The winning entries stood out for their vividness and authenticity, and as each represented a very different side of Falmouth we have decided to award the prize jointly.”

Christopher Warren-Adamson, who lived in Falmouth as a boy, said that he was “thrilled to bits” by the award for his poem, ‘The Docks 1955’, which beautifully evokes childhood memories of his father drinking with dock workers at the Seven Stars on the Moor.

Morag Smith said: “This has given me such a boost, and has touched me on so many levels.” Her poem, ‘A Night in the Lane Behind Marlborough Road’, is a powerful and moving account of a dramatic incident in one of Falmouth’s main residential roads. Morag is a mature student at Falmouth University’s School of Writing and Journalism.

Morag and Chris will both be reading their poems at a special prize-giving evening at the Falmouth Hotel on 24 November, where the winner of the prestigious Cornwall Contemporary Poetry Prize will also be announced. Both the winning poems will be displayed in Falmouth near the places that inspired them, along with some of the other strong entries to the competition.

The prize-giving event forms part of the Cornwall Contemporary Poetry Festival, a feast of the best in contemporary poetry that runs from November 22 to 25 at venues including the Poly, the Maritime Museum, Falmouth Art Gallery and the Falmouth Hotel. Full details of festival events, which include readings, workshops, panel discussions, a slam, a poetry and illustration exhibition and a floating open-mic on a boat on the Fal, are on the festival’s website at cornwallcontemporary.wordpress.com.

A Night in the Lane Behind Malborough Road

Face fall, I fetch my face up, I call the lines in

stake out the hide-out before the cave-in.

We had to fake it, we stole the end-line

we called the boat in, we called them both in

recalled the last time you peeled your own skin

how the pain cried out of the deep place.

You had tears on your legs, knees in your eyes

pain in your neck, you held your own thighs, you made a promise.

We couldn’t hold you, you broke us open, we were gutless

it was night time you were fearless

we sat down behind the houses where the bins are, it smelt of cat’s piss

we were frightened by your strangeness.

There was a silence between the barcode and the four-pack.

Gripping our nervous hands, making us promise quietly not to leave you.

We never knew how long the night was

touching dawn with its unexpected colours, the bins turning pink

holding each other like children, mewling like kittens, hungry and scared

our cold, wet faces felt like rain and stone, you licked salt from my cheek

holding a secret and whispering about the sea

It was a face fall, you fell a long way, I felt the lines break.

It was a stake out, I was hiding beneath the hide-out

we never found you, you went the wrong way.

Morag Smith

The Docks 1955

The siren went at midday on Christmas Eve,

releasing docks workers

to pack the Seven Stars

in the Moor

dad later joined the throng at the Seven Stars

next door to his Co-op manager's office;

against the wall

tug crews, boiler-makers, rivitters, electricians, RNLI,

and the rest

group for the annual photo;

row after row join docks celebrities

frozen in film

Abernethy, Silley, Cox,

Underwood

little dad is added to the back row

stands as if under the crane Tatania framed in black and white

poised to deliver him

to the floating dock AFD5

he returns home too late

to share in our Christmas Eve excitement,

alas, the worse for wear,

he sings and sings, even under the bedclothes,

a different version of While Shepherds Watched

he learnt once, he almost sobs, one Christmas Eve on Truro Station.

Chris Warren-Adamson