My Rusty Ship

The sculpture lays on the desk,
Tattered, musty, and dry.
My colleagues call it grotesque,
But I personally don’t seem to mind.

The ship was roughly made,
From wood and plastic sheets,
The colours of the clay fade,
Leaving dust and grime behind in the distance.

My inner artist growls within,
My brain filling with drear,
A train of thought starts to begin,
I love what meets my ear.

The rustic figures, the muslin mast,
I cannot help but stare,
Such as a spell that can cast,
This boat that’s sitting here.

The history, years, attached to it,
The thought behind its works,
The aura that this model emits,
Is one that does not need words.

-Alfie, year 8, Glenunga International High School

Painted wooden model of a boat, The British Museum