Sarah rowe, Australia's National Honour, September 2026
Sarah rowe wrote the highest-scoring poem from Australia in the Writory International Poetry Contest, September 2026: sandcastles and sadcastles, scored 79 out of 100 by the blind judging panel across five published criteria. The poem was read in English, Latin script.
sandcastles and sadcastles
We used to catch dusk in the hems of our shirts. Come home grass-stained, sun-warm, with pockets full of stones we had mistaken for treasure. The hose water tasted grass bruised and metallic like the garden had bitten its tongue Apricots split open over the sink, their sweetness running to our elbows. We built kingdoms under dining tables, draped sheets over chairs and believed anything with a roof could keep us safe- There were cicada shells clinging to tree trunks, Bees slept drunk inside lavender. The sprinkler clicked its silver metronome across the lawn while we ran through it screaming as though joy had discovered our names and intended to keep them. At night; the bath steamed the mirrors blind. Our fingers wrinkled. Towels waited warm from the dryer. Someone carried us half-asleep down the hallway, and we never opened our eyes to check who was holding us. The moon followed the car home. Streetlights passed in gold intervals. My head knocked softly against the window and every house we passed looked inhabited by mercy. I did not know then that windows can make almost anything look warm from the outside. I remember the blue glow of television after bedtime. The forbidden sweetness of being awake while the whole house thought you were sleeping. Cold floorboards. Wet hair. Band-Aids with cartoons on them. How grief once fit inside a paper napkin. How easily the world could be repaired. There were whole summers when death was small enough to be cradled in palms a beetle turned upside down on the windowsill. We would carry it outside on a piece of paper because even then we thought everything dead deserved to go home. I wish I still believed home was something you could return a body to. I wish scraped knees were still the only wounds that came with someone kneeling. I wish every goodbye still ended with someone waving from the driveway. But mostly, I miss falling asleep in the back seat, mouth open, hands empty, certain that when we arrived someone would notice I was too tired to walk and carry me the rest of the way. There are nights now I would give anything to be that helpless again. Not because I want to be young. Because once, being unable to carry myself/meant someone else would.
Every country's leading poet each month is named on the September 2026 National Honours. The contest is open to poets in Australia and everywhere else: enter the current round, and every poem receives a score out of 100 and a certificate.