A Change Of Weather

• Niamh Naughton, Grade 6
• Poetry
• 2014

The wind slaps my face as I attempt to walk in a straight line. The rain is slashing against my frozen cheeks. My body is so cold it feels as
though I am a winding toy, stiffly walking. I continue to remind myself of my destination and battle the wind, the rain and the cold. It smells damp and deserted. No-one is on the road and no animals fly over-head, between the threatening clouds. It looks as though a painter has swished and
swashed his brush along the top of the canvas, using a mixture of the deepest colours.
It feels like forever when I get to the end of the road. I have to make a decision. Left or Right? “Every-one relies on right!” I thought. “But left
looks safer!” I turned and continued walking. The trees cave in on me; all I see is a light ahead. My curiosity grows until I run over and into the light. A warm feeling overcomes me and a black gate creaks open.
I walk in and the light spills over as far as I can see. Hills roll over the bright green land. I suddenly realise I am dry and so is this mysterious land I stand on.
I walk, peering into the distance. This land seems to be the opposite of before. The soothing warmth from above makes me feel peaceful. I look up and see the dazzling sun, spreading a tangerine glow over the lush fields.
I walk across the cotton-like ground to a hulking willow tree and rest against its cool trunk. I gradually lower my eyes and feel the gentle wind
play with my camouflaging hair.
Crashes and thrashes fill my head. I shudder as I open my eyes. The sky is black and angry clouds push down to the mud. Rain surges down to the dark ground and then streams down slopes and hills.
My breath fastens as I hurry across the wicked storm, my shawl drenched with mud and dripping cold rain.
The warmth of the bright sun is long gone and the rolling soft hills have vanished. Only mud and water remains, mud and water. The road has washed away with the teaming rain.
I slip and fall and my shoes squelch through the ten inch sloppy, dark mud. I see a gate in the distance and quickly hike towards it.
I reach the steady metal gate and undo the lock. I am used to unwinding the string and breaking the padlock open. I stumble up the winding drive-way and as I see the bright, fragile cottage I begin to cry. Hot, fat tears run down my long face and onto my
t-shirt. I sniffle and run the rest of the way to the carved wooden door. I don’t knock but the door pulls back and my Mum embraces me. We both begin to cry and I squeeze her tighter.
I love her, I really do.