The Lamp - Embley's Annual Creative Writing Magazine (issue 1)

the
LAMP
ISSUE 1
2021

“
WRITING, TO
ME, IS SIMPLY
THINKING
THROUGH MY
FINGERS.
”
ISAAC ASIMOV

POETRY & PROSE
Welcome to the first annual Embley
creative writing magazine.
Here we share with you some of the amazing writing created
by Embley pupils across the last academic year; what you
will see in the next few pages is a snapshot of a variety of English
experiences at Embley: writing created in lessons and at home,
often for the sheer pleasure of composing; entries for competitions,
held across the school; writing for co-curricular activities and
things that were created just because the mood was there.
I suppose what they have in common is the right stimulus provided,
followed the time and space to write, Virginia Woolf’s room of one’s
own. The quality of what you will see here is a testament to the creativity
of the school, which provides both stimulus and space to write for us all.
We have a variety of incredible poems, as well a lot of extremely
impressive prose. Sometimes, they are based on very strict criteria,
such as a sonnet, or a close modern parody of a particular writer,
but often they have no direct link to anything and perhaps that is
the most impressive of all: the creative instinct, almost independent
even of the mind in which it grows. Romantic poets would have seen
it as a divine message and maybe they were not far from the truth.
I hope you will enjoy what you read here; it has certainly been a
pleasure finding and presenting this amazing work in what was a
trying and yet extremely successful and productive Embley year.
In sharing this, we hope it will also provide inspiration to our pupils
for the year ahead.
Steve Bowyer
Head of English
1

POETRY
ROMANTIC POETRY
Romantic poetry is a unit of study at GCSE. To provide
inspiration, pupils spend lessons exploring the beauty of
Embley’s glade, the Long Walk and Heather Gardens in the Spring.
ONE SUMMER EVENING
A summer evening, the daffodils smiled at the sun.
Swans swam out through the lake. The sun shone upon me,
the trees of love that reached above the bright blue sky.
The days with rain are romantic and the moon’s silver kiss
A crown of golden daffodils beside the stream,
beneath the trees, dancing in the breeze.
The rainbow shone with colours like my heart,
that burst with vibrancy
Under a roof of stars jasmine flowers and
sunshine sunflowers, with climbing grape vines
grew up the walls of a grand garden.
The roar of the ocean holds secrets, as love rises with the tides
And sits on the crest of the wave.
Flowers of gold
Who knows what they behold?
The rain sprinkles the flowers
Water droplets hang like crystals
So different and blissful.
Here, Charlotte’s piece is particularly evocative, capturing what
the best Romantic poets do: the link between natural objects,
the weather and human emotion.
2

POETRY
Amy’s Romantic poem was also very impressive, borrowing
ideas from Wordsworth’s famous ‘Daffodils’ and Exposure by
Wilfred Owen, which we had studied in class.
A CROWD
OF ROSES
A crowd of roses lay beside the lake,
They basked in the golden sun,
Their red petals curled in the heat,
A slight breeze blew by,
It danced off their crimson skin.
The clouds above them curtsied across the sky;
They lay in peaceful bliss,
Watching the lazy days go by
The water waited in desperate fear,
A red army stood by,
Their thorny arrows may soon be shot,
And pierce the water’s shallow skin.
A hurricane erupted in the once calm sky,
It dragged the water towards the bank,
But the patient red army still stood by
Watching its prey with mighty hunger.
Suddenly the sky calmed,
Releasing its tight grip.
The water drifted home, order was restored;
The water lay back in a moment of relief,
The clouds huddled in recovery
Travelling across the pale blue sky.
The short-lived battled was over,
But the war waited by.
3

Year 7 pupils
composed pieces of
poetry about war as part
of a competition to
celebrate National
Poetry Day. Isla’s poem
describes wartime from
the perspective of a
civilian and was also read
during Embley’s
Remembrance Service.
4

POETRY
THE AIR RAIDS
A WARTIME POEM
The screaming has stopped, the city is silent
I can see the light but I don’t want to look.
We wait and we wait until we know it is safe;
Then the sound of worried voices begins to arise,
Floods of people start heading outside.
As we step outside it is a horrible sight,
Destroyed buildings and piles of ash
How did they do so much in one night?
Ambulances going this way and that.
The screaming has stopped, the city is silent,
I don’t like the air raids, We have to leave the flat;
Mamma says I’m a brave girl. but the shelter is dark and
scary Filled with rats I’m glad the screaming has stopped.
The city is finally silent.
5

POETRY
A T R I O
OF SONNETS
As part of our celebration of Shakespeare
Week, we held a Sonnet Competition and
were amazed by the quality of entries from pupils
across the Senior School and Sixth Form who
mastered the intricacies of iambic pentameter,
the rhyming couplet, alternative rhyme and the
volta. Here is a selection of entries.
I liken it to a sweet summer breeze,
Calmly brushing swiftly through the trees.
A feeling warm and soft onto my face,
My feet feel grounded, staying in their place.
Tweets of birds lullaby through the air,
The harsh sun beaming with a stare.
To any on goer briskly passing by,
Would take a moment to look into the sky.
Appreciate the beauty and the grace,
Of nature’s doing, whilst sunbeams play on their face.
This feeling of summer, heat basking whilst you stay,
Laying in a chair, not a penny to pay.
Nothing for this feeling, so rare, true and raw,
Nothing at all, not a single outstanding flaw.
By Lexi, using rhythm perfectly while introducing a neat, modern tone.
6

POETRY
The rain falls down like a stream through the way,
Painted in a gallery on display,
You promised me thy colour shall not fade,
But the storm stole it and I was betrayed.
Soaking through my unbreakable feeling,
My instinct needs lots of healing,
However, my memories are taking over,
I wish I was lucky like a 4 leafed clover,
I watched you play happily in the fields,
Now your happiness is blocked with shields,
Yet you come to see me soon,
As we stargaze, looking at the moon,
You make everything so much fun,
Now my sorrows are undone.
By Paige, borrowing from Shakespeare’s
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’, while taking something
of the natural colouring of John Clare, the Romantic sonneteer.
Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
Nay, you are much brighter and funnier!
Facts and knowledge do spring from you like rays
And commendations flood in from teachers.
Often are you on iPads to be found,
Watching YouTube or chatting to your friends,
Doing art, even playing in the grounds,
Diligent study til the school day ends.
Oh the mouth-watering food baked weekly
Oh the fun had in music and drama
Completing fair English tasks uniquely
Now in school and not home with your llama!
Such talent and kindness is rare to find
What a great group of people is combined!
A tribute by Ms Swann to her tutor group, bringing a
lovely sense of joy in her description of the pupils.
7

POETRY
LOOKING
OUT OF MY
WINDOW
A PANDEMIC POEM
12 8

POETRY
Sometimes the best literature is spontaneous, a celebration
of the moment. Ellen takes a moment in time with this
exquisitely well devised poem about the pandemic.
Looking out of my window
I see, birch trees, birds and bees.
The sun is setting, the clouds are
gazing down on us, the neighbour’s
cats are fast asleep indoors.
Pigeons roam the ground, droopy
flowers sway, unhappy.
The world doesn’t feel right at
this moment in time. Nothing is
growing, the grass isn’t happy,
even the sun has lost his smile.
And all the time we’ve been
locked indoors, the vegetables
haven’t grown. Nor has the birch
tree that sits by my bedroom
window.
Although we may be grumpy
and tired and in vain,
I’m sure the sun will rise again
(followed by rain). And after
the pandemic is over, we can
gaze down from our windows
and think ‘Aaah - isn’t the world
lovely and peaceful
at this moment in time.’
Looking out from my window
I will see, summer roses and
strawberries and sweet wafts
of fresh air.
And the world - for once -
will feel normal again.
Right up until a hailstorm
brings us back to reality.
9

SHORT STORIES
A 21 ST C E N T U R Y
CHRISTMAS CAROL
Isaac adapts a Dickens’ classic, providing quicky modern
touches and a contemporary edge for his entry into our
Christmas Writing Competition.
Oh! But he was a greedy beast.
He made his employees work for far below the minimum wage, snatching
their lives to make more money for himself. He was a driven, aggressive,
hateful, cold, feared old miser! Compared to his brutal work regimen,
the infamous sweatshops with exploited child-workers were attractive
workplaces. Amazon.com and its tales of bullied, exhausted employees
was a positive Eden! Scrooge was stone cold throughout – devoid of
warm emotions. Lonely (by choice) and secretive, the hatefulness inside
him – that he released in his anonymous, troll comments on social media
pages against his competitors – was shown on his face. The vulnerable
elderly were his prime victims; they feared his random calls threatening
them with a virus in order to extort their hard-earned pensions.
Dementors were cute and cuddly in comparison. The coldness within
him was mirrored on his exterior frostiness: his face was pinched and
wrinkled, his voice was harsh and he walked as if he were held upright by
icicles. Even his thinning hair looked like strands of ice, which continued
onto his eyebrows and chin. An aura of coldness was permanently with
him and, even at the height of Summer, he emanated that coldness.
Christmas – traditionally a time of inner warmth and happiness for
humankind – merely increased his iciness to all.
No one ever engaged him in conversation. Rough sleepers knew better
than to beg from him. Children and adults avoided him in the street.
Even guide dogs were frightened, turning tail and dragging their blind
owners away from his reddened glare. Even the dreaded Coronavirus
was fearful of encountering him. In fact, he was worse than COVID-19,
for no vaccine could ever inject warmth into him.for no vaccine could
ever inject warmth into him.
10

But
Scrooge
didn’t
care!
On Christmas Eve – his least favourite day of the year because it was the
happiest for good caring people – Scrooge gazed down from his narrow,
unheated office at the top of the soaring Scrooge Tower, enjoying the
effects of the biting winds and freezing fog upon the crowds below.
He sneered at the seething masses as he thought of how his latest
campaign to prevent money being thrown away had just succeeded.
He had stopped that ridiculous footballer Rashford’s mission to give
free meals to deprived children. Now, if only he could claw back that
£33 million raised by that old soldier with a walking frame…
His blue lips almost parted in a rictus smile at the eco-friendly lights
battling feebly against the polluted air which was invading every
single area. So much for the Xtinction rebels; the brown, sticky fog was
controlled by Scrooge’s wintry brother, Nature! The coldness increased
as below him his workers beavered away anxiously, even though it was
3 o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
11

SHORT STORIES
EMILY
WASN’T
LISTENING
Year 8 pupils study dystopian
fiction, the work of George Orwell,
Ray Bradbury and Aldous Huxley,
alongside more contemporary novels
and theory about why people are still
intrigued by the idea of the world
going wrong. In the opening of a
dystopic novel below, the way Hannah
intertwines setting, character detail
and a sense of hopelessness
and oppression is masterful.
12

SHORT STORIES
Emily wasn’t listening. The chaotic classroom
was a whirlwind of screams, laughter and
wasted education, that only the rich could
afford. But it wasn’t chewing gum or the
throwing of pencils that was distracting her; it
was the streets. They were completely, utterly
empty. It was a stark contrast to their usually
overcrowded market town, and she hated it.
It made the town seem colder, harsher and
lonelier. Not a single person had dared to leave
their house that morning. They all knew the
Crew were coming.
Outside, the last of the autumn leaves were
cascading down, slowly and miserably, like a
child that finally gave in to leaving a friend’s
house. Ice lined the pavement and, as I
glanced over, it gave me a frosty wink, telling
me that I’d be the next unlucky pedestrian to
slip precariously into its grasp. The towering
apartments that provided life saving shelter to
many, were so close to the school, that it felt
like they could all get crushed by this giant in
an instant. The cracked glass in the very few
windows, reminded Emily that even money
couldn’t buy the resources they no longer
had. Healthcare and food supplies were at an
all-time low. Since the ghost flu had infected
thousands of citizens living in the Jurius region
of South Paria, the Crew saw this as a solution
to the rebellions. Their logic was this: the more
people die, the smaller an army there would
be to annihilate. Only government officials
had access to the life-sustaining medicine that
everybody craved.
Shocked, Emily jumped up suddenly as the
bell gave a piercing shriek, alerting her that
school was over, and she faced the treacherous
journey home. Wearily, she collected a few,
precious belongings and placed them carefully
into her threadbare bag. As she was fastening
her bag straps together with a safety pin, she
noticed something at the bottom of the bag.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realised what
it was – a tattered old picture, but not just any
picture, oh no, this one was symbolic, but also
worth thousands in the eyes of many. It was
her home. Her real home. A huge colourful
paradise, full of her favourite things, back in the
days when money really could buy happiness.
Back when Earth was a sweet, blissful place to
live. Back, before the disaster that destroyed
the world struck.
Snapping back to reality, she weaved her
way through the bustling corridors. Her brain
seemed to ignore the enormous number of
students heaving their way past; never before
had she felt so alone. She shouldered her way
through the stampede and pushed through the
cold, metal gates, leaving the lifeless building
behind her. She grasped the collar of her
useless, thin coat and pulled it all the way up to
her ears, in a desperate attempt to keep away
the coldness of reality. The repeated glances
over each shoulder only made her war against
the climate harder to fight. The cameras stared
down from every corner, like seagulls eyeing a
child’s ice cream. The desolation in the town
echoed through her soul, a singer wailing into a
microphone. But it wasn’t just the cameras that
were a danger to her; momentarily she allowed
her mind to wander back to the warmth and
comfort of her previous life. Her stomach gave
a jolt. She was falling. Fast.
As she opened her eyes she glanced around.
With no idea as to what had happened, she
leaned up and placed her hands beside her. As
she did, she felt a strange tingling sensation.
The lump underneath her arm, ghostly arm
itched.
She was going to die.
She didn’t doubt that.
13

SHORT STORIES
THE GOVERNESS
Year 9 pupils study Gothic writing and to
provide inspiration, they explore the Manor
House as part of the renowned ‘Embley Gothic
Trail’. Eloise has written this beautifully wellconstructed
opening to her short story.
14

Mary was dead; there was no doubt
about it. Her shiny skin was pale and
grey, her lips were a mottled shade of blue. A
river of crimson blood seeped from her chest
and stained the cloth apron that she wore.
She was dead and I did it.
Let me start from the beginning.
Birds sang a sweet melody as the old pony
and trap rattled down the lane. Men worked
in the fields, shouting out to one another and
laughing with the joy of the land. The sun
shone high in the sky and it was roasting hot,
but I shivered. I had never been this far out
of town before and I missed the hustle and
bustle of London. We stopped abruptly; the
lane was now silent apart from the hush of
wind in the trees.
“Out!” The driver dumped my suitcase on the
floor. “Just down there to the right, you’ll see
the house.”
“But…”
Before I could speak, he clucked to his old
pony and trotted off down the lane, leaving a
cloud of dust behind.
Now I was alone in the vast countryside. Two
vast statues stood on either side of the iron
gates before me, their lion mouths frozen
open in an immense growl. ‘Bickley Manor’,
the sign read; so this was the place. I pushed
open the gates and they screeched with rust
and disuse. My suitcase trundled behind me,
tumbling on every stone. The large driveway
curled through the picturesque landscape,
lined with ancient chestnut trees and a small,
abandoned gatekeeper’s hut stood in the
opening to a dense forest. I couldn’t see
the house, but I could tell it would be grand,
because of the size of the estate.
I rounded another corner and there it was,
the Manor House. It was a huge house, but
entirely in proportion to its surroundings.
Large windows glistened in the evening
sun and a trickling water fountain soothed
me: I was excited to start a new life in this
house, my new home. It stood before me,
in a maze of well-kept gardens, with a small
vegetable patch in front of the chapel on
the east side of the building. Colossal trees
towered high above the intricate façade of
the house; double wooden doors, guarded
by substantial pillars opened slowly and a
small, plump face peaked out.
“Mrs Grosvenor?” I enquired.
“Juliet! We have been expecting you – how
wonderful it is to see you!”
She wrapped me in a cosy embrace; although
I had never met this woman before, the
warmth of her welcome made me feel that
this was where I belonged. At this moment,
I thought that life was as perfect as it could
be; the evening sun shone on my neck and
my hair lifted in the gentle breeze. I felt so
welcomed by this stranger, who seemed so
pleased to see me.
A Mrs Grosvenor stepped back, I managed
to get a better look at her. She had curly,
auburn hair, swept back in a neat bun and
she was wearing a blue dress with a frilly
apron. She was a plump woman, with wise
eyes; maybe she was 30, maybe she was 50,
it was difficult to tell.
“I felt as if I didn’t introduce myself properly!
I am Mary Grosvenor, but you can call me
Mary,” she said “and this is Audrey.”
A little girl poked her head out from behind
Mary and waved.
“I am eight years old,” she said proudly.
“It is very nice to meet you, Audrey,” I said.
I thought that this must be the small girl for
whom I would be governess. She seemed
angelic, so why had I felt so nervous before?
Everything seemed ideal - who would know I
could be so wrong?
15

SHORT STORIES
I ’ M S T I L L
ANNA GLASS
In the Summer Term, our GCSE and A Level pupils
were asked to create a story which was submitted as
one of the five strands of evidence which combined
to create a bank of work to be used as exams were
replaced with our assessment procedures.
16

The sweet scent of cinnamon swirled
up my nostrils, calming them. It
reminds me of childhood; Christmas
cookies with Grandma and coffee shop
trips, in which 6-year-old me was so
unbelievably fascinated by the whooshes
and the whirs of the gleaming machines.
And yet here, 15 years later and 5000
miles away, as I amble aimlessly through
the market, the smell still makes my mouth
water. I swallow, reminding myself that
reminiscing about the past won’t help me
to start afresh.
I just want to be lost – so I take every
20-foot-wide twist and turn. I practically
dance across the cobblestones, constantly
making sure that the scarf wrapped
to conceal my hair and the oversized,
blacked-out sunglasses don’t slip off, for I
may be allowing myself to have fun, but it
will eve the death of me if I lose my cover.
Perhaps literally.
The market that I stumble upon in this
foreign country could be an alternate
universe, for the beauty of the people and
the size of the fruits is beyond anything
I’ve seen on this earth before. Lemons
practically the size of my head sparkle in the
hot Southern sun, sharing a cosy bed with
oranges and pineapples and partnered
with other fruit-like objects that had only
ever appeared in my fantasies. Huge and
multi-coloured and spiky and smooth and
round and long and – oh my God – furry?
I make a mental note to come back to this
stall later, when the bearded man working
there has stopped pummelling a tattooed
fist into the back of a scrawny little boy.
He can be no older than I must’ve been
in my memory that this sight can’t help
but bring back. I watch, feverishly as the
child screams out, helpless, as he reaches
his arm out desperately towards me.
When his pleading eyes lock into mine,
for a minute I feel as though I can see his
soul, deep behind walnut irises there is
a tiny lion cub. It has the appearance of
such mighty potential; he could be proud
and strong, king of the jungle and hero of
the herd. But this lion cub cowers in the
corner. Hi mane untamed, his tail between
his legs, his spirit broken. A lump forms
in my throat and my heart begins to
heave, and I have no choice, but to leave.
I wipe behind my sunglasses, expecting
moisture, but my hand comes away dry .
The realisation angers me: I’ve grown to
be so hard-hearted that even witnessing
the punishment of a child won’t reconcile
with me. I adjust my scarf, then scurry
away – like a meek little mouse when
faced by a predator.
I can’t help wondering as I wander along,
with each step I take, I think of each swing
the man took to the boy’s back. With
each breath I draw, I hear the stallkeeper’s
shouts breaking the softly buzzing air
again, like the harsh crack of a whip and
try to imagine what he was saying in
English. Inhale.
“You mustn’t steal!” Exhale.
“Street rate!” Inhale.
“You’re a disappointment to me and your
mother.” (Wait...what?) Exhale.
“I don’t care if she’s dead, she still hates
you.” Suddenly, I’m alert.
“Stop crying, you stupid brat!”
I flinch, confused and afraid.
“Jesus, Anna, I told you to stop your
stupid crying!”
The churn in my stomach and fazing
over of my eyes tells me it’s happening
again, but this time, I can’t control it. The
memories come as a flood; as if to wash
away all the hard work, as if none of it
matters, as long as I’m still Anna Glass.
21 17

BOOK REVIEW
TONI MORRISON’S
THE BLUEST EYE
As part of our celebrations of World Book Day, to celebrate
this international festival, we held a Book Review Competition.
There were many entries, from all ages, some highly entertaining
video recordings, as well as the more conventional review.
Charlotte, a Sixth Form English Literature student impressed
the judges with her critique of this book.
Toni Morrison has such a way with words
that she has the ability to completely
immerse the reader. There is a chilling
beauty in the way she constructs her novels.
However, ‘The Bluest Eye’ is extremely
poignant, as it enlightens the reader of the
cruel realities of a young girl called Pecola’s
life. Her character is shrouded in mystery,
and you never fully understand how she
feels.
‘It was their contempt for their own blackness
that gave the first insult its teeth.’ Morrison
depicts the warped image of beauty and
communicates how it has affected many
young black girls.
This novel opened my eyes to issues that
have never personally influenced me, but
Morrison’s novel left me feeling melancholy
and in awe of the way she communicated
her message.
The abuse she faces from classmates and her
family, forces her to escape into a fantasy;
she dreams of having blue eyes.
The novel touches on some very harrowing
themes, including abuse and the internalised
white beauty standards which damage the
lives of many black girls and women.
Morrison is an incredible author and all of her
novels that I have read have had a profound
impact on me. They can be unsettling and
uncomfortable, but they are thoroughly
enigmatic and immersive.
18

NEWSPAPER ARTICLES
FULFILLING A CHILDHOOD DREAM
Our GCSE academic scholars were asked to write a piece in the
style of a newspaper article about what made them unique. Niamh
explores the world of competitive ski racing while Chloe describes
her childhood dream of becoming an international show jumper.
A COMPETITIVE SKIER
Ski racing is not a sport that many people really know much about.
Many people see it as ‘just going down the hill fast’.
In fact, there is a whole lifestyle that can be experienced from a young
age, including a tremendous amount of dedication and hard work.
For World Cup athletes, it is all about preparation, as they will push their
bodies to the limits, as they want to win. With only the top 10 races
scoring points and money, it really is a gruelling sport.
Race days come around often; some younger athletes can cover up to
three continents in a few weeks, to try and lower their points as much as
possible.
As well as the skiing training, physical fitness and even mental fitness
really separates those who win and those who don’t. With top athletes
having extreme fitness programmes, as well as having the need to
balance their work and social life, it can definitely be tough.
On race days, it really shows who truly wants it, as many athletes can
psych themselves out before the race even starts, due to nerves and
stress. Many will also go on to crash out or have equipment malfunctions,
causing injuries that sometimes even end their careers as ski racers.
For younger athletes, they still have the same kind of programmes as
World Cup athletes, just with less pressure and with the races having less
significance, although the potential that they want to have, causes them
to treat the races as if they were the World Cup. Each individual has their
own race day routines, preparing themselves to win.
Ski racing is one of those sports that people are deceived by. It isn’t
just going as fast as you can, it is about the commitment and training,
showing to people that, those you want to win the most, often do.
19

NEWSPAPER ARTICLES
INTERNATIONAL
SHOW JUMPER
When I was three, I wanted to be an
international show jumper. Now I am
14, I am almost there!
Show jumping as a sport involves a lot of
travelling. Almost every weekend we are
competing nationally around the country,
at various different venues. No show is the
same; you will never jump the same course
twice. This is what I like about it, as you
face new challenges all the time, testing
yourself and your horse’s abilities and
seeing if the long hours of training have
paid off.
Like any other sport, you have
ups and downs all the time.
One minute you are winning a
big championship and the next day,
you could have a fence down, or
even fall off. Once I almost broke my
jaw and neck – they know my name
in A&E, I go there so often!
Horses aren’t machines and no matter what
you do, if your horse isn’t performing to its
best ability on that day for whatever reason,
whether they are not feeling well, unhappy
or spooky, you can only do your best.
You are bound to have a bad day at some
point, even if it’s not your fault. I believe
that show jumping teaches you to be more
mature from a younger age.
I started competing when I was 10 years
old and I had good days, along with some
bad days. The discipline teaches you how
to deal with the good and the bad and
to be a good sport. You learn to be more
understanding and also to accept your
mistakes, but not dwell on them and work
to make yourself better.
Training is the key to success in show
jumping. I currently have two horses.
Both of these horses have to be kept fit
and on top form, ready to compete. This
means training throughout the week,
in preparation for competitions at the
weekends.
I personally love training my younger
horse, Grace, because when she starts to
go well and I get good results, it gives me
the best feeling. I also love training on my
older horse, Fully, because she helps me,
when I get things wrong and helps correct
them.
Show jumping is a very difficult
sport in many ways. It is physically
exhausting, although a lot of
people believe that as horse
riders, we ‘just sit there’. We do
have a much larger role than
that. We have to hold everything
together and maintain a balanced rhythm,
to allow the horse lift their knees to jump
and a lot more.
Show jumping is also very tiring. There
are early mornings and late nights, when
competing at the weekends. One weekend,
I woke up at 4am, to get to the yard at
4:30am, to leave in the lorry with the horses
at 5am. My class started at 8am and my last
class ended at 4:30pm and I got home at
7:30pm.
I love this sport, partly because it’s not
easy. It really shows when you have put in
the hard work and it feels amazing when
it does go right. And that makes it all feel
worthwhile.
20

The following poem is the inspiration for the
title of our Creative Writing publication.
SANTA FILOMENA
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of all the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp, —
The wounded from the battle-plain
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering of gloom
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.
On England’s annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.
A Poem By
Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow

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