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If you would like to see many more descriptive passages like the ones below, please check out my book  Writing with Stardust. It is now available on Amazon. You can also just click any of the book images underneath.

 

LEVEL 1: BASIC SENTENCES

1. The waterfall was aquarium-blue. COLOUR

2. It was drizzling onto the rocks. SOFT SOUNDS

3. The larger waterfall was pounding the rocks. LOUD SOUNDS

4. It tumbled down the mountain. ACTION

5. The bliss-pool at the bottom was varnish clear. A DIVINITY-POOL

6. It looked like a wall of blue satin threaded with silver. TEXTURE

7. The flowers next to it were nodding gently. OTHER IMAGES

8. It was freezing and we were shaking with the cold. SENSATION

9. The flowers growing nearby had a honey sweet smell. SMELL

10. We ate an ice cream cone on the bank and it was divine. TASTE

 

                                 LEVEL 2: A BASIC PARAGRAPH

The waterfall was Atlantis-blue. It was gushing over the rocks. At its widest point, it was surging and plunging down the mountain. It had a beautiful serenity-pool at the bottom. It was veneer clear. The waterfall flowed as smoothly as syrup. The frogs croaking nearby added to the wonderful sounds. We threw ourselves under the waterfall. It was so cold that we started shuddering. We collapsed on the bank and let the nougat sweet smell of flowers wash over us. Later we had some ham sandwiches and they were Godly.

 

 

 

LEVEL 3: CREATIVE PARAGRAPHS

The waterfall was Mediterranean-blue and magical. It was swishing over the rocks joyfully. It was thundering down into the pool like a gigantic water spout. When it toppled into the ecstasy-pool, it foamed it at the bottom. The rest of the pool was as clear as cellophane, enabling us to see down into the rocky bottom. Fronds of forest-green plants waved gently in the depths. The waterfall looked like a sheet of blue velour as it swished down. Its edges were hemmed with whipped-white lines.

We could see a gaggle of geese grazing by the bank and the scene was picture perfect. A group of Amazonian ferns, edged with saw’s teeth and statue still, added a tropical flavour. We stood under the waterfall to cool down, but it was catacomb cold. It gave us goose bumps immediately. We ended up quivering and shivering on the bank. The nectar sweet smell of the spring flowers perked up our spirits. We had a cup of chocolate and it was Godlike after our moment of madness.

 

                                 LEVEL 4: ADVANCED PARAGRAPHS

We gasped in astonishment at the clarity of the Caribbean-blue waterfall. It was spurting over the basalt rock, spilling eel-like over the ledges. Its clamorous passage at the foot of the mountain threw up bubbles of spray. They sparkled uneasily in the dying light and shimmered like the ghostly, blood drops of a phantom.

There was a whooshing vortex at the bottom. It was caused by the plummeting funnel of water that spiralled from on high. It looked like a drape of blue aluminium, such was its lushness. The cascade was sieved with silver at its fringes, lending a hallucinatory quality to it.

Wagtails were bobbing and dipping on a rock, foraging for juicy flies. The tip of the rock pierced the rhapsody-pool like the upturned nose of a dwarf. Run off water tingled the rock as it seeped away, distilled as pure and clear as an angel’s tears. There appeared to be a cave under the arch of waterfall. Quickly shedding our jumpers and shoes, the bravest of us plunged into it. The watery slide we passed through was so cold that our bodies were quaking when entering the cave.

At first, our only impressions were of a curtain of doom-black confronting us. Then our senses became fully attuned. The air was musty and rank, like sticking your head into an old dustbin. The reason why became obvious as our night vision kicked in. It was littered with fish bones, hundreds of them. Whether otter, heron or bear had done this over millennia, we did not know. The sooty darkness at the back of the cave seemed gloomy and dank and we felt that only impure, wicked things would be found there. None of us had the courage to delve any further. The bones seemed to grin up at our hesitation as we turned to go out.

We burst through the wall of water and looked up to see a hopeful, polestar-blue sky. A cup of hot soup was waiting for us and we sipped in silence. The fragrance of the marzipan sweet flowers added to the peace. It tasted unearthly and Arcadian after the experience of the cave. It gave a new meaning to the term comfort food.

 

 

                     LEVEL 5: COMPLEX WRITING: ROCK AND AWE

I ambled along the mountain path. An unusual humming sound vibrated in the air. It sounded like a swarm of bees. Then the buzzing transferred to the rock beneath my feet. It travelled through my body and I felt a tingle that ran up to my fingertips. I rounded the corner and the source of the sound revealed itself.

It was a whirruping waterfall. At this distance, it looked like silver tear tracks on the wrinkled face of the mountain. It was tiered and plunged into the depths of a paradise-blue pool. As I began to get closer, the noise of the cataract increased. It was growling and rumbling. Then it foamed into lather at the base. The waterfall seemed to fuse itself into distinct threads of watery fabric as I approached. It was as if a loom of liquid silver was pouring down the rocks. The sound was cacophonous now. The spout was hitting the cavernous hollow of the pool like a thunderclap. It rushed down the mountain, roiling and bubbling, boiling and churning. The pool fed two other smaller waterfalls, but they were not as deafening.

I walked along the edge of the rocks, leaving the swollen noise of the large pool behind. The sounds changed to a gentler swoosh-plunk and hiss-plop. It was still a salvo of sound, but it had a gentler slushiness to it. The two waterfalls streamed into one infinity pool of bliss. From it, the last spillway flowed, as smooth and fluvial as silver dew. It spilled over the gravelly bed with the honeyed sensuality of a lover’s kiss. It was chiming as it slid, svelte and slinky, past my feet. The chinking, tinkling sound was caused by its languid slickness echoing from rock. It looked like the sleek robe of a water witch as its glassy brilliance pinged and plinked. Its edges were seamed in silver and glinted in the aureate light.

Just then, the sun came out. Its rays caught the watery slide, giving it a trance-like quality. It turned it a-glitter, like shreds of silky silver. The airy sparkling of its spray was magical. It looked like a spritz of fairy dust, flickering in the slanted light. It had the dreamy and illusory façade of a Renaissance painting and the same shimmering sorcery a mirage brings. The drizzling spray created a filmy mystique above the pool, dazzling me with its beauty. It gurgled from the depths and tinkled on the surface, swishing with a sylph-like melody.

The noise subsided as I walked away. It became a distant humming again. I ventured one look back over my shoulder. The willowy waterfall flashed silver one more time. Its soul-swelling magic followed me all the way home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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      This is an extract from my new book ‘Writing with Stardust’, now on Amazon. It is in 5 Levels and the entire book comes in 5 levels for each chapter. It is the ultimate descriptive guide for students and teachers. There is also a spelling workbook available on Amazon. I hope you enjoy the post.        

 

LEVEL 1: BASIC SENTENCES

1. The fields were parsley-green. COLOUR
2. Lonely calves were lowing in the fields. SOUND
3. The moon was like a ghostly-silver disc in the sky. SIMILES FOR THE MOON
4. A carnival of scents blew in the air. THE MOVEMENT OF SCENTS
5. A host of daisies scattered the meadow. SPRING FLOWERS
6. Strands of thin light came from the sky. METAPHORS FOR LIGHT
7. The milk-splashed calves brayed for company. OTHER IMAGES
8. The scene was spirit-lifting. SENSATION
9. There was a cream fresh smell. SMELL
10. The spring foods had a candy floss sweet taste. TASTE

 

LEVEL 2: A BASIC PARAGRAPH

The fields were glade-green. The sound of chirping chicks filled the air. The moon was like a phantom-silver orb. A pageant of smells floated in the spring air and a horde of dandelions littered the meadow. Staffs of slim light spilled from the sky. Proud-breasted pigeons strutted across the meadow. The scene was spirit-refreshing and pastoral. The meadow smelled pear fresh. There was a blossom sweet taste to the food we ate.

 

LEVEL 3: CREATIVE PARAGRAPHS

The malachite-green fields seemed to be covered in a bright sheen under the dawn moon. We could hear yipping fox cubs breaking the quiet of the world. Clouds shaped like tufty pillows glided slowly across the sky. They carried an airy, warm, drizzling rain with them. It cleansed the land and banished the strangling coldness and stunned silence of winter. Plinking and pattering off the leaves, then fading into memory, the rain energized the flora. It left behind a world baptized and rebirthed by its liquid grace. Song thrushes trilled as the spectre-silver moon began to wane and the fog of flowers in the meadow slowly revealed itself. We could smell their aromas hovering in the air.

Versace-purple crocuses seemed to glow before our eyes. Jewel-green grasshoppers bounced atop the grass like leggy trampolines. In the stony verges, Rafael-red valerian sprouted from between coral-black cracks. Spears of dawn light suddenly drenched the farthest corners with their golden magic. A pair of misty-eyed cubs yelped as they saw us and darted to safety. A murmuration of starlings wheeled and banked overhead like wind-tossed gunpowder. The rustic scene was spirit-renewing and we let the menu of melon fresh scents wash over us. We ate our hamper of food under the leafy umbrella of a great oak and it tasted molasses sweet.

 

LEVEL 4: ADVANCED PARAGRAPHS

The dawn chorus is the herald of spring. It starts with a lonely, serenading minstrel, usually a blackbird. He is clear and melodious, as fresh and sweet as the gardens he will later raid. In the neighbouring tree, his future ex-wife trumpets a fluty duet. Her saucy fanfare dares others to match their salsa song of the canopy. The competition rouses from their slumber, opening their beaks to the heavens. The avian aria slowly becomes a fugue, bouncing through bough and bower. The lilting majesty of their song cascades into open spaces, through glassy windows, and onto the smiling lips of the dreamers within. Spring is here.

What are the triggers for the comforting cannon of tree music? Is it the lace of morning fog slowly receding as the months roll by? Is it the gently unfurling flowers, velour soft and receptive to warmth? Is it the baked oven smell of grass as the sun purges it of water? It is this and more. It is the world moving from iron-grey to fairyland –green. It is the spools of lambs’ wool hanging from straggly bushes, a wedding card to the nesters. It is the mist of smells, the frill of flowers and the scent of magic in the air. Shoals of honeysuckle, primroses and bluebells sway and weave a rich mosaic in the meadows. Harp strings of golden light touch steaming shadows and soften the frozen earth for the wildflowers. Turtle-slow lawnmowers pedicure the grass, while leaving their clippings behind for the fussy nesters. Gnarled hands with snipping shears scalp the hedges. The world is young, lush and bountiful again. It is a spirit-enriching, pastoral scene. Under the wraith-silver moon, an alchemy of balsamic scents swirl around the meadow. Human foods become peach sweet to the taste after the scavenging fangs of winter turned them tasteless.

What of the dreamers? The same, easy smile plays on their lips. They are listening to the theatre of the trees while they sleep. To them, it is a song woven from lilting lullaby and brazen beak. They do not know that it is an ode older than the span of man’s dreams. They may never see the beauty of the brood-mance of the bower. Neither the finest pane of daylight nor the most cunning tint of moonlight shall match the opus of the dawn chorus. Spring is here.

 

              

                 LEVEL 5: COMPLEX WRITING: SPRINKLING STARDUST

Spring is glee. It’s a fizzy tonic, like a slowly overflowing bottle of bubbling joy. It tattoos its colours onto the land, banishing the clay-cold claws of winter. The blessed dew is bespangled on the frosty ground. Like wizard dust, it burns the snow into oblivion. Buds blossom, trees thaw and grass grows. Spring cauterizes, with a surgical precision, the gaping wounds winter leaves on the land. When it’s finished, it infuses its own mojo into the endless opera of the seasons.

One fine morning, the world wakes up to a rapture-blue sky. It is high and bright, a continuum of delight that salves both spirit and soul. The grass becomes wonderland-green as if some magical jujitsu chop has banished the frost overnight. Squillions of glint-silver dewdrops are sprinkled in the meadow like stardust. They are shimmering Eden pills that signal to the grass it’s time to revive. Like slinky escapologists, the seeds below slip through the iron shackles of the earth. Finally, flowers begin to wave at the ecstasy-blue sky again. Within days, cherry blossoms are manicured with bliss-pink petals.

Splay-legged lambs, acolyte-white in colour, wobble on their knobbly joints before going a-gambol in the fields. Waves of coruscating light immerse the meadows in sheets of golden flame. Bluebells and daffodils add to the stained-glass perfection of the forest’s colours. Tufty thickets burst forth as everything is a-tangle in the branches for birdy kiss-and-tells. Little feathers mysteriously appear under conker-brown trees.

Spring is here. It is the time of the ‘lings; nestlings, seedlings and ding-a-lings. In finely woven nests, tiny hearts tap with joy. Under the ground, shoots shaped like tadpoles replace crusty bulbs. The first bike-racers appear, zinging down country lanes, terrorizing baby hedgehogs. Overhead, an exodus of banished birds appears as if out of a Celtic fairytale. Honking geese and whooping swans are joined by the sinister cuckoo. To-whom-do-you-brood-with is his sorrowful call and the answer will doom some of the nestlings.

In the distance, the world’s greatest sound is coming out of hibernation. It is the mellifluous hum of a distant lawnmower, signalling that the land is warm again. Its distant drone is a sort of surrogate wind music, flowing into winter-battered ears. Whittling and shearing the grass to perfection, it provides symmetry to winter’s jumble sale of chaos. The air smells like baked sugar cakes after the grass is shorn. Snowmelt makes the rivers pulse like wondrous veins. They surge to collect winter’s clutter, rumbling through rocky channels.

Thumb-plump bumblebees, wings a-thrum, loot from honeypots of mustard-yellow flowers. They sound like mini tumble dryers, plunging syringe-like to extract their booty. Nickering foals prance and cavort in carnival-green fields. The pumping heart of nature is beating again.

Spring is nature’s defibrillator, a high voltage pacemaker that jump starts life into the land. It throbs and thumps to its own high octane rhythm and composes its own symphony of sound. It has a life, a fragrance and a lilting synergy unique to itself. If it were a perfume, it would be called eau-de-Glee.

 

              

For the full chapter, check out Writing with Stardust which is now available on Amazon. You can also click any of the book images underneath.