Fosterian Magazine 1979 - Old Fosterians and Lord Digby's Old Girls

The leaders were now five miles ahead of the stragglers, and nearing thestadium. As they got nearer the crowds watching them became thicker, until atthe tunnel that led into the arena policemen had to hold back the crowds to stopthe runners from being crushed.But suddenly everything went quiet and dark as the runners disappeared intothe tunnel, the only noise being their footsteps echoing ofT the walls. As the firstrunner entered the stadium a great cheer, louder than aJl of Napoleon's artilleryput together, went up from the spectators.There was only four hundred metres to go and it looked as if that runner wasgoing to clinch the gold, but then another runner appeared fifty metres behindhim. The race was on; who would reach the finishing line first?The runner in front saw him and tried to increase his lead, but he couldn't ashe was far too tired. The second runner was also closing and at two hundredmetres they were neck and neck, both struggling tor the lead, but with the lastounce ofstrength left in him the first runner reached out and ~ut the tape a half ofametre in front.. to win the race.He had now won probably the most sought-after prIze in the world, the goldin the mw-athon. But really anyone who completes the course should get somesort of medal for they have just completed the most gruelling race in the world.SCHOOLBOY BLUES He's over there, teaching us French rm over here, kicking the bench. I'm sitting in boredom, watching the sky.He put me in front, I don't know why.Time ticks away at a tortoise's pace.Three hours have gone, five more to face.He looks like a lion, pretending he's stem.They sit looking keen, pretending to learn.Impatiently waiting, as still as a stone.Will the bell ever go? I want to go home.Her engines are purring majestically,As, like some great eagle,She gathers momentumAnd soars up into the sky.The hundreds of eyes from her fuselagePeer down on the Lilliputian world.Suddenly this disappears from view,To be replaced by a vastwhite blanketTHE AIRCRAFTKEVIN HUDSONMARK BARBERKEITH LONGAUTUMNAutumn is . . ... . .Leaves scarlet and russet drifting gracefully to the ground,Combines going through the fields full of golden wheat, Nights cold and lonely, the dew set in early in the morning, Farmers bringing in the harvest, the fruit and vegetables, The bales coming in, heavy and golden. The conkers falling off the trees and their cases bursting open, Fruits falling off trees and being lovely and ripe, The crimson apples and the yellow pumpkins ready to eat, The dew making the cobwebs sparkle like silver. A lovely time of the year. A WINTER SCENEThe trees stand bare against the dark sky, Their black form towers overhead. The crisp snowflakes start to fall. I see an old tumbledown wall, I 'run for shelter. My footprints are left behind. The landscape looks bare. I see some fenCing, It stretches for miles across the snow-capped hills.Ice hangs from the trees, Branches snap and fall to the ground. The clouds drift slowly along. My footprints have now gone.The snow has stopped falling,The wind starts to whistle,The trees bend from side to side.I trudge on through the snow.I see a gate swinging from side to side,It creaks and moans.There's a break in the grey clouds,The sun peeps outTHE MOTORBIKE RACE A terrible animal All clad in black As it speeds past. Its low wail is heard Above the cheers of the crowd. A small thoroughbred With the uncouth name of Yamaha As it gallops along Ready to unseat its rider At every bend. It slows down, It stutters, It has run out of petrol. QUick! Fill it up! It needs a drink. WILLIAM PENNELLWILLIAN PENNELL5657