Year 12 writers
Year 12 writer: Mary D
Shoes off
Walk me. Walk with me. Because it's a beautiful day.
This is England, after all -
Make the most before it becomes an unrecognisable marsh again.
Remember when I fell on the track because of the slippery mud last winter,
And you and I spent a good five minutes laughing at my sorry state?
Don't worry, the back school gates, by the bus turning area,
Will be open. We can leave from there.
Open to our carefree wander.
Free.
Let's forget, just for a moment, that we have impending tech coursework to finish.
Let's make the lunch hour two.
Take them off, like me.
Trust me.
They'll feel better. You'll feel better.
The naked feet embrace the dirt track like old friends
Kept far-too-long apart.
The miniature stones aren't painful under my soles,
But welcome.
Reminders that I still feel.
That there is a world beyond the school gates,
A world beyond the stress of deadlines and GCSE exams an achievement.
That the green leaves haven't forgotten me.
It's been too long.
The silky petals of the blooms remember the last time I touched them,
you see.
Fallen flowers along the way beautify my hair. The perfectly natural accessory.
Let's walk slowly; I am, for once, in no hurry.
We don't have to go back yet.
It's the last day of it. We're supposed to be on a break anyway.
Easter holidays and voluntarily coming in to do coursework, who's have thought us
the type?
Worth it, I know. Stressful nonetheless, I fear.
Listen to them. Chirping and singing their little lungs away.
Perched on brown branches, hidden in a world of the greenest leaves -
the singsong of peace and perfection. Music to our years.
Harper Lee was right: it is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
The sun greets the back of our necks once again, in all his mighty glory.
Melts it a little, reminds us to indulge in it: the ice cream we bought to share.
Hold the sandals with your left hand,
Hold my hand with your right. Skip with me as if we were still little girls.
Point the tip of your nose up, smell the track;
There is nowhere else I know which has an actual scent of Spring.
Let's follow that dog-walker, verge a little off the track.
Walk into that field, imagine the farmer,
Going about his business in the first hours of warm daylight.
Lie gently on the purposefully overgrown grass.
Listen to the sounds of the anonymous bugs.
We must get back to the track. We must get back to the gates.
Time won't stop to allow us this moment.
The coursework must be finished.
But is it really more important than all this and its beauty?
Let the memory capture the scene; keep the image warm in the imagination during the winter.
There'll be Maple Leaves loitering it when the Sun decides
It is time for him to bid us farewell
Far too early in the day, again.
And when the azure sky turns a cold grey,
It'll become the unrecognizable marsh
Painted by winter.
We'll be a little older.
And the soles of our feet with meet with wellies which will meet with mud.
Auden was right, too.
Summer does make the trees a picture,
Winter does make them a wreck.
For now however, I walk along the Icknield Way, back the way I came.
I'll take my shoes off again next Spring.
Shoes off
Walk me. Walk with me. Because it's a beautiful day.
This is England, after all -
Make the most before it becomes an unrecognisable marsh again.
Remember when I fell on the track because of the slippery mud last winter,
And you and I spent a good five minutes laughing at my sorry state?
Don't worry, the back school gates, by the bus turning area,
Will be open. We can leave from there.
Open to our carefree wander.
Free.
Let's forget, just for a moment, that we have impending tech coursework to finish.
Let's make the lunch hour two.
Take them off, like me.
Trust me.
They'll feel better. You'll feel better.
The naked feet embrace the dirt track like old friends
Kept far-too-long apart.
The miniature stones aren't painful under my soles,
But welcome.
Reminders that I still feel.
That there is a world beyond the school gates,
A world beyond the stress of deadlines and GCSE exams an achievement.
That the green leaves haven't forgotten me.
It's been too long.
The silky petals of the blooms remember the last time I touched them,
you see.
Fallen flowers along the way beautify my hair. The perfectly natural accessory.
Let's walk slowly; I am, for once, in no hurry.
We don't have to go back yet.
It's the last day of it. We're supposed to be on a break anyway.
Easter holidays and voluntarily coming in to do coursework, who's have thought us
the type?
Worth it, I know. Stressful nonetheless, I fear.
Listen to them. Chirping and singing their little lungs away.
Perched on brown branches, hidden in a world of the greenest leaves -
the singsong of peace and perfection. Music to our years.
Harper Lee was right: it is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
The sun greets the back of our necks once again, in all his mighty glory.
Melts it a little, reminds us to indulge in it: the ice cream we bought to share.
Hold the sandals with your left hand,
Hold my hand with your right. Skip with me as if we were still little girls.
Point the tip of your nose up, smell the track;
There is nowhere else I know which has an actual scent of Spring.
Let's follow that dog-walker, verge a little off the track.
Walk into that field, imagine the farmer,
Going about his business in the first hours of warm daylight.
Lie gently on the purposefully overgrown grass.
Listen to the sounds of the anonymous bugs.
We must get back to the track. We must get back to the gates.
Time won't stop to allow us this moment.
The coursework must be finished.
But is it really more important than all this and its beauty?
Let the memory capture the scene; keep the image warm in the imagination during the winter.
There'll be Maple Leaves loitering it when the Sun decides
It is time for him to bid us farewell
Far too early in the day, again.
And when the azure sky turns a cold grey,
It'll become the unrecognizable marsh
Painted by winter.
We'll be a little older.
And the soles of our feet with meet with wellies which will meet with mud.
Auden was right, too.
Summer does make the trees a picture,
Winter does make them a wreck.
For now however, I walk along the Icknield Way, back the way I came.
I'll take my shoes off again next Spring.