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.
POEM A: The Orchard at Closing Time
1
My father counted trees the way most men count coins,
pressing each trunk's bark like a coin he might spend twice.
Sixty Bramleys, forty Coxes, and the one wild seedling
that nobody had asked for, and everybody kept.
2
Now the surveyor's stakes stand where the beehives were,
white flags planted in October mud, and I am told
the orchard will make excellent plots for bungalows,
that fruit, like everything, has had its season.
3
The neighbours say I should be glad of the money,
that four bedrooms and a garage are not to be sniffed at,
and perhaps they are right, though right has never once
tasted of anything, least of all an apple in September.
4
I want to tell the surveyor about the year of hard frost,
how my father wrapped the young trees in his own coats
and walked back to the house bare-armed and laughing,
as if warmth were a debt he could simply forgive himself.
5
Instead I say nothing. I pick an apple, small and sour,
and hold it the way you hold a name you are about to lose,
turning it over, feeling the whole worn weight of it,
before I let the cold air have the last, quiet bite.
POEM B: Nightshift Constellations
1
At 2 a.m. the ward becomes a kind of sky,
each bed a low and steady constellation,
and I am the astronomer who walks between them,
reading pulses like a physicist reads light.
2
Mrs Okafor in Bed Four dreams of her garden,
her fingers moving on the blanket as if weeding
rows that do not exist, and I do not wake her,
I only watch the small, bright work of her hands.
3
Somewhere past the blinds, the city keeps its own quiet vigil,
a lorry changes gear, a fox crosses the empty car park,
and the vending machine hums its one flat note,
patient as a held breath, patient as we are.
4
By four the coffee has gone cold in its paper cup
and my feet have learned the corridor without me,
but Mr Patel in Bed Nine grips my wrist and says thank you,
and for a moment I forget which one of us is tired.
5
When the sun finally climbs over the car park wall,
it finds me switching off the lights one by one,
folding the night into its box like a map
we will not need again until tomorrow.