Year 7 Descriptive Writing

snowy

Some lovely descriptive writing by Year 7 in response to a painting of a snowy farmyard.

Looking out of the window, I felt sorry for the poor sheep standing knee high in the cold, dusty- white snow. The fact that our fields had no colour whatsoever made our ancient barn look even grimmer than it actually was. All you could see were the tall, bald trees standing remotely to the right hand side. The snow was deep and solid at the bottom – no wonder our animals had to search for minutes to try to get a mouthful of grass.
Anya Constantinescu

The snow blanketed across the cold, hard ground where grass peeped out here and there. Sheep were dotted around and an old, derelict barn stood as it had for years, with snow, like icing sugar, dusted across the roof. The fence, that separated the fields, looked sad, as if it wanted to give up. Further on was the small shed next to the orchard of spindly trees. In the distance were evergreens with their colour blurred by the snow.
Georgina Loring

They both looked out of the window. The deep snow lay ready and beckoned us, preparing itself to be thrown about and trodden on. The sheep were looking puzzled about where the grass had gone, and they were thankful for their woollen fleeces. The trees were thin and brittle. The barn was lightly dusted with snow. The fence wilted under the weight of the snow, defeated and in need of a helping hand.
James Allen

They both looked out of the window where the thick snow lay on the no-longer-visible, frosted grass. The only footprints engraved in the snow were those of the wandering sheep that were kept in that field. The huge, wooden barn, lightly dusted with snow, stood behind the field unknown to viewers on the outside, as it was so well concealed. The fence in front of the barn led to a small shed again dusted with snow, but this time more heavily. Small, bare trees were scattered around the field and a few taller ones huddled next to each other, as if they were deep in conversation.
Tabitha Huby

They both looked out of the window and saw beautiful, thick snow spread out across the old farm. The black heads of sheep stood out from their white, snow-laden bodies. In the distance they could see huge fir trees shadowing the farm. A small, feeble shed lay between the old, rustic fence and the huge fir trees. Some smaller, sadder trees sat in the middle of the round patch of grass barely sheltered by the old, toothless fence.
Ceredig Jones

They both looked out of the window. The sheep stood chilled to the bone, knee deep in a thick coating of snow. Snowflakes drifted helplessly down onto the scene. The crooked fence, over-shadowed by towering grass and unconvincing trees. The barn stood proud in the background, though growing older and weaker by the minute. The bulky fir trees decorated the grey sky. A little shack in the corner was coated in white, tired snow.
Isabel Browning

Totally Tockington Edition 92

Hello and welcome to another issue of Totally Tockington! The paper written BY students FOR students! This week’s theme is orange! Love cute and cuddly animals? Then Anya’s article on ginger cats is for you! Do you drink a glass of orange juice every morning? Then find out about just what you’re drinking in Angus’ and Jeanne’s articles! If you’re more of an arty type, then gaze at Jacob’s beautiful watercolour of a sunset- done just in different shades of orange! Finally, if you want to find out which of your favourite celebrities are ginger, then read James and Gemma’s article on ginger celebrities! All this and more in this week’s issue of Totally Tockington!

Michael Morpurgo Poems – Year 8

Congratulations to our Year 8’s who have created these excellent poems from the words of Michael Morpurgo in “Private Peaceful” (and some of their own) in their English lessons.

Four Soldiers Tell Their Stories
By Ellie Parker, Alex Boulton, Ella Howard-Robinson and Alejandro Diez

“Scrambling through the barricade of dead bodies,
I caught a mouthful of sickly-sweet gas,
It enveloped me, choked me.
I knew this would be the end of me.”

“I hurled myself to the ground,
Overwhelmed by the shelling around me.
It split and shattered, ripping my skin.
I knew this would be the end of me.”

“Whimpering through the wretched mud
I feel the haunted, dark-eyed soldiers hunt me.
Surrounded by intermittent and deafening fire.
I knew this would be the end of me.”

“Court martialled, I feel a pounding in my heart,
Shuddering, I refuse the hood. I see my killers.
Hunted by my own people. This is it.
I did not know this would be the end of me.”

One Life
By Alex Jacobi, Beth Pritchard, Adrian Ng and Rodrigo Martin

And here I lie, neglected in a blasted wasteland,
Weary,
Silent,
Down-hearted.

My head haunted by images of wounded soldiers and bombarding shells,
The shriek of the injured still ringing in my ear,
The unending, drenching rain drowning my soul and all hope vanishing with it.
Weary,
Silent,
Down-hearted.

Surrounded by an endless hell; wrecked in rubble and ruins,
The lifeless corpses sprawl over the haunted no-man’s land.
Overwhelmed with darkness, as life fades away,
Weary,
Silent,
Down-hearted.

Life becomes a blur and what seemed normal fades to mist,
As I watch my world collapse around me,
My eyes close one final time and I gasp one last breath.
I hear gunfire…

One shot.
One bullet.
One life.

Whispers of Death
By Olivia Banks, Mathis Bellino, Alex Grocott and Alex Ganfield

We scramble through blood-spattered mud,
Haunted by miserable days,
Where we claw through darkness like sheep without a shepherd,
Explosions shake our frozen bones,
Dark-eyed men endlessly fire artillery.

My dead friends sprawl across no-man’s land,
Rocking myself to broken sleep, I dream about their dilapidated bodies,
The crackle of gunfire terrifies me,
As whimpering, I pull the trigger, cutting the air with my bullets,
I think of dead men needing to be buried.

Our morale drops as we stumble on,
Wet feet plunge deep into the sticky, gooey mud.
We enter their bombarded trenches,
and hear the ghostly whispers of death.
We bury our relief in our down-hearted souls.