18 original exam-style questions - 7 pages of questions with a full mark scheme - free printable PDF.
Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). Original poem created for 11+ comprehension practice.
The orchard keeps its secrets in the grass,
where fallen apples bruise and slowly turn,
brown-freckled, sweet with sugar turning sharp,
too soft for baskets, too far gone to churn.
My grandfather would stoop for every one,
his old back curved like branches in the wind,
and drop them, softly, in a rusted pail,
as though each bruise were something he had sinned.
"Nothing here is waste," he'd always say,
"the wasps will have their share, the birds the rest;
and what the frost don't take, the earth will keep;
there's compost in the coldest, hardest test."
I did not understand him then. I thought
an apple bruised was just an apple spoiled,
a thing to bin, not bury, not to bless,
not worth the kneeling, worth the fingers soiled.
Now every autumn when the light turns thin,
and windfalls freckle grass with green and gold,
I kneel the way he knelt, and understand
the patience of a hand that's always cold.
The orchard does not mind the bruised, the late,
the ones that fall before the picking's done.
It only asks that someone kneel to gather
what the wind has taken from the sun.