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: The Tide Clock (a modern poem in free verse)
My mother kept no clock that told the hour,
only the tide, hauling itself up the sand
in its slow grey shawl, and back again,
patient as breath.
She taught me to read the mudflats
the way other children learned their letters:
the ribbed sand a paragraph, the gulls
a line of urgent commas.
At nine, at three, the water arrived
and she would stand at the door, salt on her sleeves,
counting the hours she had left
to counting at all.
Now I keep the tide tables in a drawer
I never open. I trust my phone instead,
its confident blue numbers, its refusal
to smell of anything.
But some mornings I wake certain
the room has filled with water,
that if I put my hand out
it would come back wet.
I am learning, too late, that grief
is not a wave that arrives and breaks.
It is the pull between two tides,
the going out that never quite finishes
before the coming in begins.
Somewhere she is still standing at the door,
still salt, still patient,
still telling the only time
that ever mattered.
TEXT B: Low Water (a poem in ballad form, ABCB rhyme)
She walks the harbour wall at dusk
where fishing nets lie coiled and slack,
and counts the boats that still sail in,
and counts far more that don't come back.
Ten years the tide has kept its word,
arriving twice with clockwork grace,
while he who vowed he would return
has broken faith with time and place.
The old almanac on her shelf
still marks the day his ship set sail;
she will not tear that fortnight out
though every other week grows stale.
The children ask her why she waits
where cold sea wind can find no cure.
She tells them time is not a line
but water, endless and obscure.
It goes, it turns, it comes again
in shapes no calendar can hold,
and somewhere in its turning tide
the young, she says, are never old.
So let the harbour clock strike on,
let almanacs grow soft with damp;
she keeps her hour by low water
and waits, unmoved, beneath its lamp.