Suffolk Young Poets Competition



Pelting rain pounds the roof of the old Saab.
Dad paces; rain flattens his hair
and drizzles down his face. Patiently he explains
into his Sony Ericson, that we've broken down.
Tries to persuade yet another guy from Green Flag
to turn out (even though his insurance has run out).

The late February sun is setting behind the grey
clouds over the moorland pasture of the Pennines.
Deep red sky. A single bemused sheep stares
from the bog on the other side of the dry stone wall,
it's curious black face dripping water.
Dad's navy fleece is saturated. I get out too.

Wearing only my Quiksilver jacket,
I'm soon wet through. "What's happening?"
"Don't worry, someone's coming."
Eventually we're towed to the village.
Sitting between Dad and driver
we bounce and bump off potholes to the garage.

The lady in charge is fat and kind,
has a very strong Yorkshire accent.
Before long we're travelling
across gritstone fells.
Dad's driving.
We'll soon be there.



Jo-Jo Hall (Y8)
Parkway Middle School


Supported by East Anglian Daily Times