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HOLOCAUST
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The Dreaded Walk
The walk of doom
I think of the freedom
Going to the room
Escape from bad treatment
For a long two years
I’ve worked for my life
I’ve faced my fears
Through my heart goes a knife
The Holocaust
Lost minds, kept straight only by the train tracks ahead, Stolen youth, stolen innocence, stolen lives, Pulled from underneath us in a flash, a blur
Of the crowd, herding us like fish
Towards the nets.
These guards are hated That’s a fact I will be cremated Please, just sign a pact
This will be the last you see Of me I’ve got to go At least I will be free From the sorrow
Thomas G (9N)
Fear and desperation, Tangled together in a colourless web Of a horror-filled imprisonment, So close to our old loves, Yet separated by the oneway sea of death.
Trapped, caged by miles and miles Of barbed wire, stretching out on a sea of cruelty, The blood staining the boat of our lives, Hopelessness sinking us ever faster Towards the depths of insanity.
Rebellion, revolt, all useless, They merely stand, watch, uncaring, Unaffected by our blame, As they line us up Outside the shower block
Charlotte C (9G))
While Ullswater may be a shared site, I've always considered it mine.
The hills undulate rhythmically against the sky's backdrop, their rolling shoulders adorned with pines, whose juniper skirts flourish and twirl in the breeze. Heather carpets the slopes with harsh blasts of fuchsia daggers that stab at the air. Lush, zesty verdure swarms the rim of Ullswater's basin, with moss that clings to shiny, slick rock, suffocating it from the outside world. The slumbering dunes contrast the streaks of mahogany browns, ambers and deep maroons. The hawthorn hedges line the fields, with spheres of crimson rhapsody popping out from under the thick thorns that snatch at anything brushing past.
Ullswater's lake is a pool of perfection, mirroring the scene so well that flipped upside-down it looks exactly the same. The blushing sunrise casts roses, lilacs, and peaches against the stiff peaks of the hills and emanates peace and tranquillity across the lake. The faint ripples that ruin the liquid lookingglass come from the modest steamer that slices through the lake. It churns out wisps of steam that dance in the spring breeze, mimicking the azure butterflies. Swishing fish in the corner of your eye chomp at the algae that sways to the throb of the lake. Fishing lines plop off rickety piers and hidden Dost houses nestle into crooks in the earth.
The clean crisp, spring air inflates my lungs, touching the tips of my nose and turning it a humbling red. My face stings in the mist lingering over the hills. It hangs round the necks of the mounds, like foggy, glass jewels cut into jagged gemstones that glint in the dappled rays of the morning sun.
The orange glow is smothered by layers of fog, each droplet intertwining with another, forming a damp mesh of crystallised water in the breeze. The grass clings onto every single dewdrop it was given, desperately trying to suck the spherical water along its thin stalk, tousling with the one next to it. Its tassels catch my ankles, soaking the cuffs of my trousers and spreading mud deep into the crevasses of my sole. A paved pathway, separated by lines of moss, curves and winds towards the harbour like a hose pipe spilling into the lake.
Stone-built houses nestled into the banks of the hills bathe in the rising sun. Their million-pound windows look onto the flat lake, copying the ripples and swirls in their panes. Their rooves point up into the fog, the wooden eaves housing sparrows that chirp and tweet to one another, the leaves rustling as they flit between bushes. The houses perch and squat along the lake's edge, their gardens of trimmed bushes and pruned fruit trees merging with the swamped mud. The lapping of waves caused by rickety rowboats in a random rhythm drum into my ears, and hum into the throng of life through each cracked-open window.
Each animal bustled through their morning routines. The hare's long ears scampered above the grass; the blackbird whistled a wake-up call with an amber beak that yanked shocked worms from the damp earth, and the fish flitted between the tall rushes that swayed to the lake’s beat.
Ullswater hums, buzzes, sings and thrives in ways that only those who sit long begin to notice. But I have not yet sat long enough to understand these ways, nor do I think I ever will.
