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Christmas Poems

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Christmas

Christmas is coming,
Stocking are hung,
The tree is decorated,
With help from my mum.

Santa is ready
For the big night ahead,
While children are fast asleep
All tucked up in bed.

Santa creeps in
As quiet as can be
And fills the stockings
1, 2, 3.

Early next morning
Children can see
Santa has been!
Oh Wow!! Yippee!!

Sam Laycock Year 7
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The Magic of Christmas

The trees are bare and everywhere the snow
falls like glitter.
Crisp and clean, sparkling white.
It’s Christmas Eve; such a beautiful sight.

The icy winds blast and howl
But Christmas lights light up the town,
The frost hits nature hard and fast
And takes over the ground like a curse that’s been cast.

Frosty walks and warm woollen mittens,
A silver moon and a bright star that glistens.
Hot chocolates and warmth from the old log fires
And everyone puts on their new snow tyres.

Children anticipate the gifts in the stockings
And all the pubs have Christmas lock ins
Will Santa come down by chimney tonight,
Squeal the children full of delight.

Snowflakes fall softly not making a sound,
Silently hurrying to cover the ground
But it won’t last long, it will soon start to thaw
When spring comes along knocking on the door.

Emie-May Burnett Year 9
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December 1914: The Western Front

I weave, and I dodge,
The enemy trying to take me down all the while.
One comes charging at me,
Slipping in the thick, brown mud.
I push on,
My heart beating faster and faster.
Through the hot, sticky sweat that clags my face, I spot my target,
An ordinary man just like me.
Before he has time to react, I shoot.
The ball slips past his legs and through the rifles we use as goal posts.
The game is won, I celebrate with my team,
Shouting and cheering till our throats are raw.
We exchange greetings and Christmas cards with the Germans,
Their accents alien and strange.
Showing pictures of our loved ones,
We give chocolate and cigars,
To these friendly, noble men,
Who we will have to fight tomorrow.
As the horror of war reveals itself,
We trudge back to our damp, murky trench.

Tomas Richardson Year 8
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