Competition

Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION No 293 you were invited to imagine a vegetable at the heart of a murder and write a poem on it, called Vegetable Love

Max Ross’s narrator, reasonably enough, killed his stepmother for making him eat onions. It is curious that the carrot was often the criminal or the instrument, though for Basil RansomeDavies it was the arsenic in the leeks, while for Peter Hollindale arsenic in the peas was countered by drizzled morphine. Kik Piney’s crime was solved by Hercule Poireau.

Commiserations to them, Stefan Badham, Katie Mallett and Erika Fairhead, and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to G M Southgate.

A murder of crows were circling the spinach, Sown just three weeks ago, now coming green.

(1) Too strong for any immediate spades.

(2) Very well reasoned. Partner seems almost marked with a void club, given that East prefers clubs to diamonds (having passed 3 rather than return to 3♦). Plus, North has four-card spade support and controls in both red suits. Finally, Signore Forquet plays the spots off the cards.

Our Neapolitan hero ruffed West’s hopeful ace-of-clubs lead with the ten (no harm in retaining the eight – it could be useful…). He cashed the ace of spades (West discarding a club to reveal the highly inconvenient three-nil split) and led up a diamond. West rose with the ace (ducking doesn’t help) and led a second diamond.

Winning dummy’s king, declarer ruffed a second club with the jack of spades and cashed the king of spades (West discarding a diamond). Declarer now cashed three rounds of hearts, finishing in hand, to leave a four-card ending whereby declarer held ♠ Q 8 and ♦9 7; West held ♦Q J and K J; and dummy held ♦9 6 and Q 8.

At trick ten, declarer led the nine of spades and West was caught in a squeeze. Discard a club, and declarer overtakes with dummy’s nine, ruffs a club, ruffs a diamond and cashes the promoted queen of clubs. Let go instead a diamond, and declarer lets the nine of spades win, then ruffs a diamond, ruffs a club and cashes the long diamond. Slam made.

ANDREW ROBSON

Pigeons were waddling across the raked surface, Mindlessly pecking where shoots could be seen.

I had in the garage some beetroots, left over From last season’s harvest, I should have thrown out. Though wrinkled, they seemed to be hard as I needed, And fitted my hand. Clutching three, I sneaked out.

In soft canvas loafers I played the assassin, Silently creeping across the damp grass. I bowled at the pigeons as fast as James Anderson, Hitting one squarely. They scattered en masse

Except for the body, the broken neck bending, Which I left as a warning to others who’d steal.

The crows took the point, lifting off for the beech trees, And I set up some cloches, to settle the deal.

G M Southgate

She dined upon a plate of greens, Most elegantly slim and spare, Her silken robe was aubergine, Frisée as lettuce was her hair.

Exquisite pearls around her neck, As shiny white as silverskins, In these she strolled about the deck, While flashing pea-like emerald rings.

She loved to pose for photographs In roles that famous painters painted: Susannah, naked from her bath –Ophelia, too, was recreated.

Ah, destiny, how cruel thy blows! She undertook The Death of Marat –Ironic, then, you may suppose, That she was daggered with a carrot.

Fiona Clark

Had we but worms enough, and thyme, And crumbly compost (old, sublime!) We could have made a veggie stew To die for. But that’s not for you, Is it? You want your crème brûlée, Lashings of sugar every day, You want your steak, your sauce Béarnaise, Scorning my stomach’s long malaise. But you shall have your just reward –(Salad of strychnine, be my sword!) Don’t offer sex, or Eton Mess: You’ve cooked your final pommes duchesse –And I have cooked your goose, my dear, You’ll be my ex within the year. My vegetable, love, will grow Nastier than hemlock (not so slow).

Bill Holloway

Brock Tenderstem was tall and lean, Young Caullie short and fatter. Though she was white and he was green, To them it didn’t matter.

‘I love you very much,’ Brock said, ‘So before we’re sent to Tesco’s Let’s settle down in our brown bed And make some Romanescos!’

Between them then came Wendy Weed. T’was jealousy that filled her. But before she set her seed, The gardener came and killed her.

Our lovers suffer yet more stress. Their future’s looking cloudy. For Brock has gone to M&S And Caullie’s off to Aldi.

Rita Duckham

COMPETITION No 295 I quite like negotiating asphalt broken by tree roots in daylight, but not at night. You are invited to write a poem called Roots, in any connection. Maximum 16 lines. We cannot accept entries by post, I’m afraid, but do send them by e-mail (comps@ theoldie.co.uk – don’t forget to include your postal address), marked ‘Competition No 295’, by Thursday 29th June.