Looking for mushrooms
I remember those walks to gather mushrooms
in Robson’s field or Owen’s field or Jackson’s,
the thrill of running ahead and sighting,
half-concealed in the evening grass,
the pure white dome of a satin-skinned mushroom.
How to pick a mushroom without crushing
the sturdy-looking fragile stem,
that was the challenge,
and, of course, to find more mushrooms than you.
“Abracadabra!” I would cry, and behold,
another mushroom would appear on my child’s horizon.
Sometimes I would play a game with Chance.
“I don’t think I will find another mushroom tonight,”
I would say, looking round eagerly
for Chance to yield the game to me,
with one more mushroom, or two, or three, or four,
all to be placed in your cap or in a knotted handkerchief.
Never will I forget
the cool damp smell of the mushrooms
which we carried home together,
spoils from an evening foray in the summer fields.
Kirby Underdale Church
The long steep rather revolting steps,
Covered in a gooey green paste,
Looking like a long dark nostril,
The churchyard at the end pulling me towards it,
Wanting to own another grave ,
The glowing lamp couldn’t resist it,
With one great shove he sent me tumbling down the gooey nose.
I landed on the pebble path,
Hills covered with graves all around me,
All of a sudden the ground began to rumble,
Like someone’s tummy,
The earth around me exploded,
And lots of ugly skeletons began to rise from their graves,
It began to rain,
But this is no normal rain it is horrid green discharge,
This strange man must obviously be blowing his nose.
And to my relief the skeletons did not like this strange rain either.
I had to find shelter,
So I ran into the gloomy church,
Slamming the door behind me.
At last the rain stopped
So I went to look out of the window and found the rain had gone back up the nostril.
I ran to the door but it was locked,
A giant cobweb reached and grabbed me,
It took me up some steep gloomy steps,
Placed me on the clock,
At that moment there was a deafening ring of the bells.
H Wray (Year 6)