For young readers by young readers

Press, 14 March 1978, Page 16

For young readers by young readers

SAINT PATRICK Westward blows a wind Towards a land so bold, A land St Patrick once reformed Many years of old. Stolen from his homeland He was borne across the sea To the whitewashed shores of a strange land Forever a slave to be. T’was six years later he escaped And journeyed home again Then to a monestary he went The Christian faith to gain. Then back he went, a happy man To Ireland he was bound And there he preached Christianity And 300 churches found. So now the leprechauns are leaping And dancing hand in hand For they are very happy As they sing upon the sand. And near the dark green shamrocks grow Beside the salty sea. Forever they’ll remain a sign Of the holy trinity. Catherine Pollock SUMMER HOLIDAYS Summer holidays are fun Times when you splash and float, Shout and jump, Glide and kick, Swim and paddle, Dive through hoops, Play with balls, Fun on tubes. Times when we choke and splutter, Sunburn and greasy oil, Wet togs that stick. I love that swimming summertime, Don’t you? Ann Nixon (aged 10) DISMAL DAY The day is opened by the hoarse cry of a rooster, Birds come into tune but stop abruptly For a low, dismal cloud is advancing menacingly. It hides the tops of the solitary trees, Restricts the sight of the snow-lined mountains. Then all hell lets loose. The rain pours down, drowning the new bom lambs. Its coldness is merciless and deadly. 1977’s Spring. Hugh Fraser (aged 13)

MY HOLIDAY Last week I had a holiday with my Grandad. We went to the zoo We saw a crocodile and a talking parrot that said Hello, Hello. We saw some monkeys. We fed them peanuts. Once some monkeys snatched Grandma’s glasses. The zoo keeper had to go into the cage and get them. Joy Hope (aged 5) WATER The sea has water—twirly and swirly, Rivers have water—swift and stony, Lakes have water—deep and black, Baths have water—shiny and blue. We paddle, dive, canoe and swim —each day Holidays filled with splashing, shrieking—and water play. Troy Sugrue (aged 7) THE REMAINS OF A LOST TOWN It's the remains of a lost town that once thrived But now it’s nothing but a heap of debris: No use to anybody, just lying idle. The ruins of an old coal mine which killed sixty-five souls Deep under the ground. The blustery wind sweeps unobstructed through the piles of bricks That litter the mine. The souls killed seem to haunt the rotting timbers and rusting steel When we visited Brunner: , An ill-fated town destroyed by disasters That repeatedly caused grief and sorrow among the citizens of Brunner. But they’ve all left now. Left the sour, acrid memories which seem to haunt the hills. As we are told of the catastrophe You could almost hear and feel the grief which hung in the air That fateful day. Cold sensations race up and down your spine, But it’s just the wind, Or the rain. Or is it? Keith Sadler (aged 12)