Autumn always was your favourite season, wasn’t it? You said the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot as you walked down the road, was the best sound in the world. Better than music, you’d claim, which from you was a big thing. To me, you were music, your laugh and the poetic way in which you always seemed to speak. Such little things, and yet…nobody can compare.
And the colours! The trees looked as if they’d been set on fire, and you always wanted to paint them, but never quite had the talent to make it look real. I always thought that art was never your thing, but looking over your sketchbooks, I think I’m beginning to understand. It’s not so much as a picture, but a feeling trying to flow from you into the paper…sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but to me they’re all beautiful.
But I feel so full of remorse that I never appreciated this when you were still here, when I could tell you just how much you meant. It was so sudden, when it happened, that I never really got a chance to… You knew you were ill, everything had slowed down for you and your hands were beginning to shake, but I never realised quite what that meant. And that’s my biggest regret, and I’ll carry it to my grave.
I’m glad you got to look at autumn one last time, Dad. We’d take walks in the woods, like when I was still a child, only it was your turn to jump and play in the leaves. You knew what was coming, didn’t you? As I stand here now, looking at that cold stone slab with your name on it, everything is cold, white, dead. My vision is blurred by a sea of white and the tears that are fighting their way into my eyes. I promised I wouldn’t cry.
We’ve buried you under a tree, in a spot where you can watch the sunset every day, and when the tree turns golden, you’ll be able to see it. I hope you like it, it was the least I could do. And I’ll see you soon, when spring fights it’s way through the cold and the ice, or maybe in heaven. Until then, Dad, enjoy the sunset.
Zoe Williams
Windernight (An Alternative Jabberwocky Poem)
Twas windernight and all were fleepling,
Hush and humble as a mouse,
But in the dim the forgs were keeping,
Low beneath the undergrouse.
Until the choon came shim’ring brightly,
Flooding all unearth with nine,
At this the forgs came hipping lightly,
Undernigh the Fumkwong twine.
If only had they mightly moted,
Danger murking from behind,
In the shadows, the garkoyle roted,
Hiding smeakly, in the bind.
Mash! Whack! Jumpersnap!
The garkoyle niftly pounced,
Forgs quivelling, sivelling, trapped,
Their kwiggling terror announced.
So windernight one must be fleepling,
Think only of the forgs and fear,
As garkoyles always leave you weepling,
Harfling for you to venture near…
Amy Wright
Look out and see the pure-white dots
drifting peacefully in the sky,
to some it seems a nuisance
but the magic makes me fly.
Each tiny little flake
floats gently to the ground
with its own individual beauty
without making a sound.
The children giggle with joy
at this rare fairytale view
and I join their happiness
as I look, lovingly, at you.
Although the air is freezing
and the sun is starting to go,
nothing can stop us enjoying
this haven made from snow.
Alice Yang
Yesterday I fell into the sky
And the clouds rushed by at a hundred miles per hour.
I reached out and caught one,
Slowing me down until I
stopped.
A bird came to sit on my shoulder
and I spoke with it for a while
about the seaside,
and sandwiches,
and that park bench which needs fixing.
He flew away and I wanted to follow
But the clouds had me caught in their cold, wet grip.
Then they let go and
they laughed as
I fell
back to the
earth.
I felt the ground beneath my feet again and carried on walking
As the clouds covered the winter sun with malice.
Jessica Brooks
Sunset was a beautiful time. The striking colours of the skyline as it slowly faded to an icky black signalled the end of the day. It meant the mistakes of the day could be forgotten or at least disguised in the ever growing darkness. It was seemed strange how different the world looked in this type of light. The sky lost its usually dull grey colour, and turned a multitude of colours.
Wrapped up in layers of woolly jumpers and scarves braving the cold, Sarah watched the sun slowly slide out of view and thought about that day. She had done some things she regretted. She’d had a fight with a friend, about something trivial that got blown out of proportion. She remembered her mother always used to say to her, “Never go to sleep on an argument.” She knew that was good advice, but she couldn’t bring herself to go and apologise. Her pride and her ego wouldn’t let her, even for the sake of a good friend.
A slight wind blew past her, and she shivered. Pushing herself back on her feet, she shuffled towards the house. She just hoped that the next new day could fix her friendship by making her mature enough to apologise.
Madeleine Unwin
This is the city.
This is where the smog rises and the rain falls. Where cement and steel beasts rise from the ground to do battle against the polluted skyline. This is where people live on top of each other, packed away into little boxes and stacked up to the cloudy limits. This is where you can disappear into the crowd even if you sport tattoos and neon pink hair because you’re not the only one. You’re never the only one.
This is what people crave when young. The bright lights, the dancing and the music, the pulsating clubs, the strangers smiling in unison. This is what makes shopping trips so fun, despite the blisters and empty purses at the end of the day. This is what turns graffiti into urban lace, sprawled across the walls of the concrete jungle and making it into art.
This is when the cars drive past at such a speed it makes you dizzy. When a glance from a stranger can put you on edge or at ease. This is when the smog fumes stick to your clothes and oily puddles creep up the legs of your jeans.
This is why the bustle of the streets is so inviting. The separate people merge into one and become some sort of animal, talkingbreathingliving, all together. Whether you want it or not, you become a part of it, integrated into a system that’s as random as it is systematic.
This is the city.
This is home.
Jessica Brooks
Walk This Way to Hotel California,
where the Dancing Queen puts Another Brick In The Wall,
The Wonderwall,
and the Candy Shop sells Babycakes
Or Get The Party Started,
in Club Tropicana where;
Billy Jean is Dancing In The Moonlight,
Ms. Jackson is Chasing Pavements and
The Real Slim Shady is Living On A Prayer,
A Thousand Miles away,
on the way From Paris To Berlin,
Somebody Told Me,
Video Killed The Radio Star
but I Blame It On The Boogie,
or a Smooth Criminal who’s Wearing My Rolex
Somewhere Else?
A Town Called Malice?
We’re Going To Ibiza.
Chloe Fore
