12 original exam-style questions - 4 pages of questions with a full mark scheme - free printable PDF.
Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). Both poems below were written specifically for this worksheet and have not been previously published. Free for educational reproduction and study; not to be redistributed for commercial purposes.
TEXT A: Harvest at Aldbury (a poem in four six-line stanzas, rhyming ABAB CC)
The combine crawls the amber field at dawn,
its blades a bright, indifferent kind of tide,
and where the hedgerow stood the light is drawn
down long stripped rows the tractor tracks divide.
I watch the swallows scattering like ash
above the stubble where the old ways clash.
My grandfather once swung a scythe by hand,
a rhythm learned before the engines came;
he read the wheat the way you'd read a land
you meant to leave your children with your name.
The whetstone sang each morning, soft and slow -
a sound this new machine will never know.
Now council vans have measured out the lane,
and stakes like small white crosses mark the ground
where houses rise on what was once the grain,
their scaffolding a cage around the sound
of engines idling, waiting to begin.
The topsoil's sold before the light comes in.
Yet something of the harvest still remains -
not lost in fields, but folded in my chest:
my grandfather's slow patience with the grains,
his calloused certainty, his quiet rest.
I cannot keep the land. I keep instead
the shape his shadow left on stubble-red.
TEXT B: The Last Days of Nightingale Row (a poem in free verse, six stanzas of irregular length)
They have already numbered the doors for skips -
21, 23, 25 - the odd side
still standing, waiting its turn, the way you wait
in a queue that only moves one house at a time.
My grandmother's step, worn pale as bone
by generations of feet wiped clean before entering,
sits under a film of yellow dust
that no one thinks worth sweeping now.
Inside, the paper she chose in 1962
still patterns the front room wall,
roses the colour of nothing, fading
toward whatever colour walls become
when nobody is left to notice them.
I have taken what I could carry:
the brass letterbox, stiff with fifty years of post,
a curtain ring, a chipped enamel jug,
the doorknob worn smooth in the shape
of every hand that ever came home.
Soon there will be a courtyard here, and railings,
and a nameplate reading something bright and new -
Nightingale Court, perhaps, in gold italics,
to remember, faintly, what it replaces.
I keep the doorknob on my desk.
Some nights I hold it, cold at first,
and wait for it to warm the way it always did,
under my grandmother's hand, then mine,
then, briefly, no one's.