GCSE English Descriptive Writing Paper One Question Five: The AQA Arch Way ( Bolton English Tuition).

 Beneath the Moon Arch Way stand two wrought iron gates, slightly ajar, as if beckoning to the night’s stealthy, spectral visitors.   The dark granite stones of the arch cling impossibly to each other, defying gravity; defying the onslaught of time; defying all logic itself. The gates are decorated with claws as a warning to any curious creatures. Rumour has it that the gates are secretly inscribed with the initials of the long, dead architect who lies buried somewhere in the woodland’s broken, unattended graves.

Perhaps the gates would rather close finally on the desolate place within. But nature has other ideas. The wintry foliage clings resolutely to the gates’ hinges, a reminder that however silent the misty woodland beyond this lakeside path with its mossy cobblestones, occasionally surprised by orange lichen that brings rare colour to the landscape, the world of the ruined chapel is not dead to intrepid visitors. Not dead at all.

However, the chapel itself cannot be spied upon from the path:  the mist at night intensifies its blanket of protection so the chapel disappears until the mist finally lifts in the morning. Yet although winter occasionally tolerates morning sunshine; days and nights are rarely light for long in this part of the world;  down by the long lake where the wooden rowing boats sink low in the water until they are cleaned for their brief summer.

The slender lakeside reeds stray almost to the gates when storms beat them back from the water, forcing them to retreat and seek new homes.  But they rarely stay. For they know they are not welcome. They would rather endure the chilly breezes across the lake than the steadfast silence of the ruined chapel and the clammy, neglected headstones that belong to no one anymore.

Yet the mist in its peculiar way admires the etiolated branches of the now skeletal trees. For they are bosom companions in this deserted place.  Perhaps the mist blanket somehow consoles the outstretched branches of each tree,  haunted by their former selves;  mourning their once green leaves shed and forgotten on the garden floor. But cunningly,  the dampness of the mist encourages the leaves’ decomposition that shelters sleeping shapes of creatures who are thankful for their hibernation until spring.

  (That is if they ever wake up at all.)

Above the arch and the garden, the dark, ash sky broods over the ruined chapel, precluding joy, until defiant, bedraggled birds open their tiny yellow beaks and fling their songs over the fallen chancel, reviving for a moment the sombre silence and stillness of this not quite forgotten place with their resilience and magic.