Children's poetry - Elleray Preparatory School, Windermere, Cumbria

Poems written by children from Elleray Preparatory School, Windermere, Cumbria

http://www.wsaschool.com/elleray/ell_welcome.html

The grand room

As I watch the time go by
I focus on the tick, tock
The floor, a railway track
Never ending, as it seems
Out of the murk, a colour of rest
The walls so clear inside the house
Yet the cold still chills your heart.

I contemplate the smell of reluctant peace
The chime then cuckoo of the house
The wood of the age
A face squared on the wall
He stands so great and strong
No cares for the goings on
His time grows, then it dies.

Alexander Farthing


Hungry Fire

It sits there black as night,
Bearing no warmth, nor light,
Waiting to be lit, by its creator,
Wearing its black patterned armour,
Shining gently in the window light,
It smells its food,
Hot and steaming in a bucket,
It eats its food with great delight,
The flames rapidly grow higher,
Flying higher the red sparks glow,
In the middle a fiery battle,
Roaring, raging
Evermore till it dies away.

Tristan


The Barrier

Here I stay warm and dry,
Outside its cold with birds that fly,
But snug I stay warm and dry,
Outside I walk and begin to tire.

The barrier of the window is here to protect me,
So I have no need to be, scarce and flee,
The wind it tries so hard to bite, but safe I stay at bed at night.

With gleam and joy I stare through the window,
All my joy though stolen by the wind and leaves me to feel sad and low,
But still I feel warm and content,
The wind is no here ready to repent.

Emily


The fire room

The fire waving at the bottom of the chimney
As you step in this great big house
Everybody could feel the warmth inside
As the morning light shines in
It is freezing cold in the room
As the cold wind strides through

The clear wide window
So you can see the rain outside
The fire was nearly dead
But then the coal jumped in and it came back to life again
The light shines on the golden daffodils when they are looking down
The picture that is on the wall that's looking at me
I believe that they are very alive.

Sandy Lung


The front room

Dark and gloomy his room,
Cold flags nestling on the ground,
The fire is like a flapping in the wind,
Sombre panels pressed against the wall,
Pictures hang proudly, looking over us,
Tired rugs resting on the flags,
Tick tock goes the clock, swinging from side to side,
The fireplace, old and battered, with telling us stories.

Katie Parkinson


Dove Cottage

In the warmest room in the house, all is calm,
I hear a faint cuckoo as another hour passes,
The gloom from the dark walls make me feel cosy
As we settle from the cold winds outside.

In the kitchen, the fire roars and growls like a lion,
I feel a rush of excitement when ghost like figures float by,
Smells of smoke and roast meat pass through me
As if they were really there.

Tick-tock goes the tall stick like figure of the Grandfather clock,
Walls of Turkish Delight and a box full of memories sitting on the side,

This house was filled with poetry each waking day
Two centuries ago,
The Laureate still looks down on us and very person who enters that house,
And the memory of going to Dove Cottage
Will stay in our minds forever.

Laurie Raymond


By the fireside

The glowing of the fire warm and dry,
Away from the windy wet weather outside, like an angry tiger prowling around,
The blazing fire rising high,
Whilst I sit warming my side,
Smoky air fills the room,
And the flavoursome hams dangling temptingly from their hooks
The low, low ceiling that I can touch
"Mind your head you have to duck!"
And a simple window with not much light,
Here I sit with my inward sight.

Jessica Sutherland


Sitting by the fire

Dark and gloomy in the night,
Sitting in the rocking chair,
Watching the fire burn brightly,

The fire is crackling,
The wood was snapping,

The rocking chair is still there,
Waiting for someone to sit there.

Fergus Forsyth


By the fireside

Fiery tongues lick the walls
Roaring like a lion
The fire burns up fuel continuously
Dying; but controlling us still
Waiting to be fed

Tick tock tick tock
A continuous pattern
Cuckoo cuckoo at the hour
Listen listen

Dark wooden panels and a cold stone floor
Rugs cover a hard grey sea
The fire grates are open
And the hypnotising fire is a master
Using his powers to control us

Sitting by the fire
I have a picture in my head
Where the wind is howling, battering to come in
I won't let him in
Because I'm safe and snug, by the fire side

Helen Gibson


The fireplace

The roaring blaze,
On a cold winter's morning,
The dancing colours of the flames,
Fluttering fire flies fly
The warmth is hitting me,
Like the summer blaze of the sun,

You can hear the clock ticking
And the cuckoo as it comes out to sing,

The fire blaze is dying slowly,
Burnt to death,
And now the only thing that is left of
The blaze is ashes,
Ashes to ashes dust to dust.

T. Tymoszycki


The Living Room

The crackling sound of the fire
The sparks shoot up like fireflies
The dancing flames as they swirl
As the smoke spirals up the chimney

I can hear the ticking of the clock
I can hear the cuckoo as it comes out to sing

Only a few flames are shimmering in the dark
And all that is left is ashes, ashes and dust
Only a few sparks shoot up the chimney
As the fire is dying, dying away.

Lucy Needham


Dove Cottage
Newspaper Room.

I wake, and listen,
Have the guests awoken?
Like me, to the sun.
Or are they still gently snoring?
Like my sisters, lazy beasts!
Their snores seem like thunder, so how can I sleep?
I creep through the house,
What can I do?
Read!
I pick up a book,
And listen and listen and listen...

And once again I'm awoken,
As my sisters giggle and laugh and talk,
As girls will do,
"Had a good night's sleep, Johnny?!"
And they giggle away to help mother with breakfast.

At the end of the day I go to bed,
After having to listen to that aggravating cuckoo clock,
I lie and dream of the newspapers,
'Shipwrecked', 'Bankrupt'.
'... pantomime ... with horses? Yea! Haugh pew, Haugh pew.

Samantha Magennis


Here I stand shivering

Here I stand shivering
Water creeps under the slate
Cold walls, floors, sapping warmth
But here I stand shivering.

Here I stand shivering
A home not just for humans
Barely above the ground
But here I stand shivering.

Here I stand shivering
As coldness creeps towards me
And apples hang frozen
But still I stand shivering.

Anna Mackenzie