Young Category (5-8 Years)
Winner: Freya Roy, Age 5 - Farley Hill Primary School
Gill's Comments
This is a really lovely and joyous piece of writing about the moment a swan chick emerges from its egg – capturing the moment and wonder of new life. It’s an original piece from the perspective of the cygnet while inside the egg. We feel the warmth and security of the egg, but then the uncomfortable feeling of growing too big, with legs all squashed up inside. Then we feel that moment of finally breaking free of the egg, of the wide expanse of blue sky. We feel the cygnet’s excitement and feeling of safety of seeing its mother – and I love the simple descriptions, just as a chick might see its parent – “My mummy is white and black and orange and when I look at my mummy I feel loved inside.”
This piece of writing invites the reader to wonder at this pivotal moment of arrival of new bird life into the world. By using the first-person perspective we can imagine what it might be like to be a bird emerging into the world.
The Cute Cygnet
I am a little baby swan and I am curled up inside an egg. Inside my egg I can just see light and dark. I have never seen anything else before. I think that my egg is everything there is in the world.
I can see the light shining when it is morning. That’s how I know that I need to be awake. And when I can’t see the light I know that’s when I need to sleep. When I feel nice and warm I know that mummy or daddy are sitting on my egg that I am in.
I chirp when I am in my egg.
I can hear my mummy and daddy, even when I am in my egg. It makes me feel happy.
My egg was cosy before but I am too big inside it now. I feel very squashed up inside my egg. My legs feel really squashed too. I am trying to wriggle so that I can make space even though I am too big for my egg. I chirp and complain a lot.
I have a pointy bit on the end of my beak. It is my egg-tooth and I use my egg-tooth to scratch my egg. All of a sudden I make a little crack in my egg! I see light coming through the crack. The light hurts my eyes at first. Then I see things. I am very scared when I see there is more things than the egg in the world. I didn’t know there was more life out there. I see lots of green spiky stuff. I can see some blue over me and I don’t know what the white things are. I think when I come out of my egg I will see my mummy! I feel excited to see my mummy! I am wriggling to try and get out to see my mummy and daddy. It is really hard to get out of my egg and I am really tired after all that wriggling. I think that I will need a nap after all this wriggling in my egg. Now my head is out of my egg! I can see the world now! My egg was wet inside so I am cold when I am born out of my egg. I can see my mummy and she cuddles me so I feel warm. I am happy to see my mummy now. I can hear the wind now. I can see more eggs in the nest I am in. Now my body has come out and I can walk now. I puff up my feathers to get me dry.
I can see my mummy. My mummy is white and black and orange and when I look at my mummy I feel loved inside. I am grey and black and one day I will look just like my mummy. She looks at me and says my name.
I am called Freya.
I am excited to see the world.
Second: Ethan Oddie, Age 7 - Breaside Prep School
Gill's Comments
This is a beautifully descriptive and personal piece of writing, capturing the moment of spring in the lifecycle of a frog. We feel the author’s anticipation and excitement of finding frogspawn. The descriptions are relatable – “It looks like someone tipped a giant tub of wobbly jelly into the water,” and “Soon, the pond is bursting with tiny wrigglers, zooming around like underwater commas”. The author’s wonder at the remarkable metamorphosis of the tadpoles is palpable. The author shares their pride in protecting a habitat for the frogs’ return. The narrative arc comes full circle, and the reader is left with a sense of wonder and also engagement to understand that protection of habitat is vital for the frogs’ survival. This narrative style, written from personal observation and feeling, carries much weight to emotionally engage the reader.
The Pond’s Tiny Treasures
Spring is definitely my favourite time of year. After months of grey skies and cold toes, everything in the garden comes back to life. Flowers start popping up, birds sing louder, and best of all—the frogspawn arrives.
Every February, I pull on my wellies and go out to check the pond. Even when it’s freezing, I can’t help peeking in. Then one day—there it is! The whole pond is full of jelly balls, each with a tiny black dot in the middle. That’s frogspawn! It looks like someone tipped a giant tub of wobbly jelly into the water. Those little black dots are baby tadpoles waiting to hatch.
Soon, the pond is bursting with tiny wrigglers, zooming around like underwater commas. There are hundreds of them! At first, they nibble on pond plants and algae. But then, something amazing happens. Slowly, they start to change.
Little legs appear—back ones first, then front ones. Their tails shrink, their mouths get wider, and they start to look like mini frogs. It’s like watching a real-life magic trick, right in my garden!
Then, the great escape begins.
The froglets don’t just stay in the pond—they go everywhere! I’ve found them stuck in flowerpots, sitting on the watering can, hopping across the patio, and even hiding in my shoe. I spend ages rescuing them and gently moving them back to safety. It’s funny how such tiny creatures can cause such a fuss.
I love having my own pond. It’s not just water—it’s a wild world full of surprises. I used to live in Singapore, where there was amazing wildlife too—cheeky monkeys and bright lizards—but it was always hot, and the seasons didn’t change. Here in England, I get to see the whole cycle: frogspawn, tadpoles, froglets, and then frogs. Every year brings something new.
So now, when I see a froglet leap from the pond with its strong little legs, I feel proud. I helped make a safe place for them. And I know that next February, I’ll be out there again, checking for jelly and watching the whole adventure begin all over again.
Third: Alex Wickins, Age 7 - Home Educated
Gill's Comments
This is a lovely personal piece of writing capturing the differing moments on a regular walk through nature. The place remains the same, but the author details how the landscape revolves around the year, with careful observations of not only the natural world but also how members of the family react to the changing seasons. We feel invited to join Alex and the family on their walk through nature, to slow down and observe and appreciate the world around us and take joy in the simpler things – of splashing in puddles and taking time to chat to dog owners and meet their dogs.
A Walk in the Nature
I would like to tell you about the walk in the nature I do with my family several times a week. Nature is beautiful and our walk is never the same. There is always something new and exciting to see or hear or feel on our walks!
When spring comes nature wakes up. Young green leaves appear on the trees. Lots of flowers like daffodils, snowdrops, crocuses, dandelions and buttercups bloom along the paths that we walk. Some trees are covered in white blankets of pretty blossoms. I love how the blossoms on the trees smell in the spring! In spring we often see birds collect feathers and twigs from the ground. We know that this means they are making cosy nests for their chicks.
Summer is my favourite time of the year. It’s usually nice and warm and nature is so beautiful in the summer! This year we saw a baby deer on our walk in early summer. It was very shy. I tried to come closer so I could see it better but it saw me and ran away.
In the summer especially we see a lot of dog walkers walking their dogs. My brothers and I love dogs, so we always stop to chat to the dog owners about their dogs. Some dog owners let us stroke their dogs.
There is so much to see in the summer! Recently we rescued one green caterpillar because it was crossing the path in a place where a lot of people walk and so it was dangerous for it to be there. We put it in a safe place on the grass nearby. Depending on the weather we see beetles, slugs and snails, caterpillars and always hear grasshoppers in the long grass on our walks in the nature.
My middle brother loves watching bees buzzing near lavender flowers on our walks. We always wonder where is their home and how they will be making honey.
I think that birds love summer too. They sing so beautifully in the summer.
And then autumn comes. And then come the rains. I love the smell of the rain! My little brothers and I like splashing in the puddles when we see them during our walk.
It becomes cold in the autumn and all the insects that we see in the summer are hiding away waiting for the next summer to come.
In the autumn the leaves on the trees change colour. They become red, gold, orange and yellow. By the end of autumn the leaves fall from the trees.
In winter nature rests. Quite often it’s cold and rainy and we need to wrap up warm for our walks. We know that there is much less food for the birds in winter, so we like to hang a bird feeder nearby and fill it with some food pellets for the birds and then watch them come and eat this food.
Our walks are full of wonder in any time of the year!
Junior Category (9-12 Years)
Winner/Overall Winner: Summer Walker, Age 12 - Catmose College
Gill's Comments
This is an astonishing piece of writing, using a moment in time, captured in a photograph to convey the details of that freeze-frame. The author has invited us to stop and notice the moment in a forest. We join them, conscious and aware of the details frozen in time, able to observe closely; “A squirrel on a branch had one paw raised and eyes wide, stuck halfway through a leap.” “A line of ants crawled up a rock, their legs suspended in the air. Even a fly hovered above a blade of grass, its wings stuck open like glass.” Then the author shares the importance of this one moment - and the urgency of knowing, of being aware; “Everything mattered in this moment. Every single thing.” “And I knew—deep inside my chest, where my heartbeat would be if it were still beating—that this was a gift. A perfect second. A breath that the forest had taken and never let go. Maybe this was what it meant to truly notice something. Not just to see it, but to live inside it.”
This piece of writing felt so powerful, because in our busy lives, we forget to see, to hear and feel the world around us, and the author has reminded us of the importance of observing, of remembering to notice, and to be present in the moment. The writing beautifully concludes with the sentence; “And the world stood still just long enough for me to understand what it meant to be completely alive.”
The author has engaged the reader and drawn us in to appreciate one moment and in doing so, powerfully provokes us to reflect on what it means to be truly present and alive.
Frozen in the Clearing
The world stopped the moment I saw it.
I don’t mean it felt like it stopped. I mean, it actually did. The wind, which had been tugging at my jacket a second before, now hung in the air like invisible threads. Leaves that were falling stayed frozen mid-drop. A squirrel on a branch had one paw raised and eyes wide, stuck halfway through a leap. And in the middle of the clearing, bathed in gold sunlight that wasn’t moving either, stood the fox. It was the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen. Not just because of how orange its fur was, or how its ears were tilted like they were listening to something only it could hear. It was the stillness. The quiet. The fact that everything around me had stopped just to hold this one exact second. My foot was mid-step, just above the mossy ground. My hair was lifting slightly, caught in a breeze that no longer existed. My hand gripped my sketchbook, but I wasn’t turning the page. Time was a photograph, and I was inside it. And yet—I could think. I could see. The sunlight didn’t shimmer, but it glowed. It wrapped around the fox like a spotlight from the sky, highlighting every single hair, every whisker, every tiny twitch of muscle that had frozen halfway to motion. Its eyes were locked on mine, calm but alert. I wondered: Was the fox aware? Was it thinking, like I was? Or was it just part of the moment, like the wind and the leaves and the squirrel that might never land? In this paused second, I looked around and noticed everything. A flower bent slightly, reaching toward the sun. A line of ants crawled up a rock, their legs suspended in the air. Even a fly hovered above a blade of grass, its wings stuck open like glass. Everything mattered in this moment. Every single thing. I felt like I was inside a painting so alive it had to hold still just to keep from breaking. And I knew—deep inside my chest, where my heartbeat would be if it were still beating—that this was a gift. A perfect second. A breath that the forest had taken and never let go. Maybe this was what it meant to truly notice something. Not just to see it, but to live inside it. I wanted to stay. I wanted to draw. But I also knew that the second would end. That the fox would move, and the wind would return, and the leaves would fall to the ground like nothing magical had happened. But I’d remember. Forever. Because for one still, silent, golden moment— I was inside it.
And the world stood still just long enough for me to understand what it meant to be completely alive.
Second: Jennah Chowdury, Age 9 - Francis Holland Prep School
Gill's Comments
This is a highly original and imaginative piece of writing exploring the idea of de-extinction - of bringing mammoths back into the landscape. The moment described is a momentous one - crossing of the “threshold of time.” The science behind de-extinction is given life by the narrative arc. We are immediately drawn into the Arctic, where a warm dawn is breaking. But this modern Arctic landscape is not as it seems. Scientists are watching as a mammoth calf emerges onto the tundra – a landscape similar to one mammoth once lived in, one that this mammoth feels an ancestral familiarity with; “She lifts her trunk cautiously into the frigid wind catching the strangely familiar scents of lichen and arctic poppies. She doesn’t understand that her memories come from the genes of ancestors that were locked in the snow, but she knows that the ice somehow feels right.”
The writing is powerful – we feel witness to a unique moment, and we are invited to see the world from the mammoth’s perspective – “Her trumpeting carries over the trees and hills, echoing through the tundra like the sound of a hundred leopard seals breaking the ice. But she is not an echo, she is something completely new that has crossed the threshold of time itself.”
The writing is lyrical yet has great weight. The author invites us to think about the ideas of bringing extinct animals back into the world and encourages us to imagine and to be curious about the possibilities.
Uki: the Living Memory
Warm dawn breaks all at once over the Arctic tundra, and silky blush pink glows over the densely packed snow. Across the horizon stretches a prehistoric landscape that has been slowly changed by time. Scrubs of cotton grass, re-planted willows, and bearberries poke through the ice. A snow bunting whistles and a musk ox lifts its head and grunts. Eager scientists huddle in a hidden bunker whispering and recording.
Suddenly a woolly creature emerges, taking her timid first steps. Her mother named her Uki, which means survivor. Her shaggy auburn locks brush against her mother’s smooth grey skin as she nuzzles into her side. Uki has a domed forehead, sloping back and her wide spiralling tusks already reach out differently to the rest of the herd.
She lifts her trunk cautiously into the frigid wind catching the strangely familiar scents of lichen and arctic poppies. She doesn’t understand that her memories come from the genes of ancestors that were locked in the snow, but she knows that the ice somehow feels right. Her mother shivers, but Uki’s tiny ears conserve heat and she doesn’t feel the cold. She stamps thick fur-padded feet thumping again and again and she scrapes the sprouting grass and new saplings with her tusks. The other calves stare at her and she wonders why.
She doesn’t know the words de-extinction, carbon capture, rewilding, Pleistocene or climate change, but she feels an urgency underneath her feet. Her constant heavy stomping and scraping is doing what no modern species could do. She disturbs the snow to let cold air flow down and keep the permafrost frozen. Soon her foraging and eating habits will keep the land clear and in time more reflective grasses will grow.
She looks out at the land beyond. It’s a blanket of white and quiet, except for the howling wind and the snow buntings song. Everything feels massive out here on the mammoth steppe, like all the worlds questions are out here. She feels like she’s been here before, even though she hasn’t.
This is the moment.
This is the moment when Uki realizes she isn’t just different—she’s special. She remembers without remembering.
A deep instinct stirs in her bones and she lifts her trunk to the sky again. This time she squeals and rumbles, fogging up the air with her breath. Her trumpeting carries over the trees and hills, echoing through the tundra like the sound of a hundred leopard seals breaking the ice. But she is not an echo, she is something completely new that has crossed the threshold of time itself.
A herd of Caribou watch from a distance. The scientists click away feverishly and drones stream thousands of images to labs all over the world. But data can’t capture this moment. It’s been 10,000 years. A calf with mammoth blood takes her first steps toward the future on ancient feet, a living memory from the past and a key to a second chance for earth.
Third: Seamus Molloy, Age 9 - St Gregory's Primary School Ealing
Gill's Comments
This beautifully descriptive piece of writing details the fledging of a young kingfisher from its “nest of iridescent feathers.” The writing is lyrical and the use of alliteration and repeated sentences of “blink and you’ll miss him,” conveys the fast and zipping flight of this bird along the river from perch to perch, looking for fish. We feel the urgency of the small bird to find food and we appreciate its behaviours – ruffling its feathers to dry. The reader feels drawn into witness this often-unseen moment along a woodland river.
Kingfisher’s First Flight
Along the riverbank, soft velvet moss, woven twigs, a circular pattern with an oval opening above stone free soil.
Emerging from the nest feathers of iridescent sapphire and emerald with a metallic copper chest.
His heart beats a little faster in anticipation.
Blink and you will miss him.
This fledgling’s feathers flutter,
Bravely he leaps off the crooked branch,
His streamline shape and aerodynamic body takes over.
He glides across the surface of the babbling brook.
Blink and you will miss him.
Butterflies in his tummy, excitement and anxiety all at once.
He sits patiently on a different branch waiting for a shimmering stickleback
He is a skilled fisherman.
Whoosh he dives into the rivulet to retrieve his supper
Blink and you will miss him.
Runnels race down his back as he ruffles his feathers to dry off.
His striking appearance is a delightful treat.
A woodland wonder
Glorious and breath-taking
Don’t blink or you’ll miss him.
Senior Category (13-16 Years)
Winner: Mikah Ubasa, Age 13 - Woolwich Polytechnic School for Girls
Gill's Comments
Mikah has captured a unique and rare moment in this lyrical and narrative piece of writing. From the outset we feel drawn in to witness this – a brief sighting by camera-light, deep beneath the sea in the ‘ocean’s midnight zone’. Mikah details the sighting of a Colossal Squid, a species only previously found in the stomachs of whales and seen in the ‘mausoleum light, tentacles stretched across white-clothed tables.’ The descriptions of the deep sea are beautiful and mysterious. ‘The ocean’s midnight zone. A lure into twilight.’ The writing is lyrical and captures the mysterious ghostly and bleak depths against the ‘golden submarine beam.’ The science is portrayed and shared with wonder and awe. The narrative arc is well structured and Mikah leaves us on a suspense of curiosity as the Colossal Squid disappears into the darkness –perhaps ‘not the only enigma of the sea.’
Kingfisher’s First Flight
Camera light—reaping every last precious second. A hundred years ago the seeds had been sown: the possibility documented under dim, yellow mausoleum light, tentacles stretched across white-clothed table, discovered in the bellies of beasts hundreds of darkened fathoms deep, signature scars engraved along their backs, but never once witnessed alive in its very lair.
This possibility was the colossal squid.
Sea snow in swathes around the spectacle: a juvenile, glassy pallor marked by golden spots: chromatophores, as if every dot had the intention of glamour; vermillion tentacles: curled in the manner of escaping; billowing mantle like sails in the open wind. A curious eye may ponder her chromatophores, her brilliant carmine. Camouflage appears in many guises. Red’s shortened wavelength confuses predators with complete black, chromatophores blend her into obscurity.
Still, she, the ship, was found near South Sandwich Isles, eyes onlooking the submarine approaching her. Bows arco. Helm poised to retreat. She swims away into a quiet dusk.
One will never meet such a desolation than in the deep sea, with the rarity of life, stolen away from golden submarine beams and predator lures. A wintery, ghastly lull. The seabed an uncertain amount of metres below.
The ocean’s midnight zone. A lure into the twilight.
Only presence is a possibility, the submarine beam under the most overt guise of an angler. She will not remain in its jaws for long.
The spotlight glimpses her likeness once more, and fades away.
Whether it be another century till her sighting, the colossal squid remains an elusive mystery. Be it a larger sister, living up to her name, great battles with greater sea monsters, eyes that have glimpsed two years, five—perhaps even a century.
Who knows?
She may not be the only enigma of the sea.
Second: Michelle Lam, Age 14 - Benenden School
Gill's Comments
A beautifully descriptive piece of writing, detailing the emergence of a plant shoot after fire has damaged the landscape. The visceral use of the senses draws us into this scene. We feel we are there, witnessing this moment. We can see the destruction and smell the acrid smoke. We feel the absence of life. – no birdsong or sound of insects and hear just the ‘soft wind blowing.’ The devastating effects of fire are described in detail; ‘debris peeled away like flesh from bones.’ But then, we begin to witness the emergence of life – a small plant shoot reaching up through the ash. The descriptive details of this small piece of life are beautifully captured. We are invited to observe closely, noticing in wonder the smallest of details that would be overlooked had this not been such a desolate landscape; ‘Micro hairs stuck on its surface, like silver dust, catching the light in glints.’ We are left with a feeling of hope and resilience of the natural world.
Life After Death
A charred forest. Nose-tingling smoke still lingering in the air. The stale, sour scent of what had burned for far too long stung my nostrils. The chestnut trees that once pierced through the skyline now lie broken and fragile on the earth, obsidian colour so dark it originates from the depths of hell. Debris peeled away like flesh on bones, blistering and cracking as it shred. Brittle branches cracked under my feet, contorted and twisted into charcoal. Crack and snap, like the screaming of pain never stopped. Ash clung onto everything: the soil which used to give life to both flora and fauna alike, the deeply entrenched roots that had once consolidated the trees, the golden leaves that had turned onyx and crumbled after just a single touch.
Where there had been moss, fern and wildflowers now only contained dust, puffing up with each step I took. The previously vivid landscape now lies in ruins; disintegrated into a looming sense of dread and decay. Pinecones lay split and hollow, the seeds inside lost or buried in soot. There was so much absence. No birds, no insects. Not even the occasional distant ruffle of a squirrel I used to hear. Just the sound of soft wind blowing through the forest. Everything seemed dimmer. No signs of life. Death lurked around the corner, engulfing the once vibrant forest in its cruel cold embrace.
I walked. Fourteen steps to be precise. Then, I saw it. The first sign of life. A single sprout, no taller than my finger, barely visible. It was incredibly feeble; yet it proudly stood, decorated with two tiny leaves. At first, I couldn’t believe it. A drop of paint was spilt onto a black-and-white monochrome artwork.
I knelt down. The ground around it was still warm, as if the aftermath of the embers had not fully dissipated. The root colours shift lightly, fading from translucent ghostly white to a pale yellow, before deepening into a rich dark aqua. Micro hairs stuck on its surface like silver dust, catching the light in glints. The two leaves at its crown curled outward, waking from a deep slumber. Their edges soft and feathered, surfaces still slick with morning dew, damp skin dappled with small specks of cinder. Threadlike veins ran across them like delicate rivers of light, each branching line etched in emerald by Nature’s own hand.
Not even the hush of the morning wind could bend the sprout. Its slender stem held firm, rooted deep in the scorched earth, still smelling faintly of smoke. All around it, everything had been obliterated from existence. Trees turned to lifeless skeletons, the ground littered with ash. Yet, this small sprout managed to grow, in the centre of the dead forest against all odds. Maybe this resilience is a sign of an unfaltering glisten of hope. Maybe not all is lost, even when it looks that way. Perhaps we don’t need perfect conditions for life to continue, maybe it returns itself when it’s needed most.
Third: Jet Pariera-Jenks, Age 15 - Home Educated
Gill's Comments
This beautiful piece of writing details the murmuration of birds. Jet describes the impossibility of capturing this moment on camera. The writing is lyrical and fluid, mirroring the movement of the birds as they merge with the sky – such that the sky and birds become one. The opening is beautiful and ethereal – ‘A little lower than angels, they surge’ - and we follow their movement high above us, until the ending where we feel earth-bound, very much human, and in awe – ‘there's nothing humans can do but watch, it is futile to even try to capture this storm, but for an evening the sky performs.’
The Sky’s Murmurings
a little lower than the angels
they surge
mirroring the evening surf
far below on earth
blotting out the night
they break
shattering on the edges of clouds
separating back into birds
pushing the boundaries of the sky
they ripple
shredding chaos into existence
taming it in an instance
a thousand droplets of oiled sea spray merge
they fly
rendering gravity inept to those with wings
the world looks on as the sky sings
borne on the laughter of children
they lift
carrying our dreams into an eternity of sky
to sink or swim or even fly
cameras are cast to heaven to see
they murmur
realising it is just a moment made to be lost
there’s nothing humans can do but watch
it is futile to even try to capture this storm
but for an evening the sky performs