Descriptive writing

How does Cambridge assess your descriptive writing?

Cambridge First Language English IGCSE will assess your work by

considering two main areas:

 Content and structure: Do you paint a convincing picture in

your description? Does your description have a range of
images and details that are well developed? How original is
your description and its use of imagery? Can you structure
your work effectively?

 Style and accuracy: How accurate is your spelling,

punctuation and grammar? Do you use sophisticated
vocabulary precisely? Can you use varied punctuation and
sentencing for effect?

Example 1 Techniques:

Use of extended metaphor

An extended metaphor is when you develop a metaphor for more

than one sentence. Extended metaphors are great for descriptive
writing because it allows you to develop your imagery and pushes
you to make more imaginative connections. Here’s an example in
our model response:

Use of symbolism

Symbolism is the use of objects, characters, or elements in a text to

represent deeper, often abstract, ideas. For example, a rose is often
seen as a symbol of love. Here’s an example of symbolism in our
model response:

Use of a circular structure

A circular description is when the writer mentions an image at the

start of their writing that they will later circle back to at the end of
the text.
A* Model description for IGCSE First Language English

After the Bomb Dropped

Homes erupted to rubble; safety bled to chaos; embraces

disintegrated to ash. Step by step, with trembling legs, I staggered
through the ruins of the place that was my home. I ignored the
streaks of blood dripping into my eyes, the tiny shards of metal
lodged into my left forearm, and the wails around me. If you paid
too much attention, you wouldn’t stop wailing either. The year was
1942 and in the village of Little Dewhurst lives had been torn apart
by the shelling of bomb upon bomb.

Ice cold, ice cold, I could hardly feel my fingertips, despite the
blistering heat of the bombs and the black tendrils of smoke snaking
into the sky. The scene before me was utter destruction. I let my
eyes become unfocused, seeing only hazy piles of rubble and bleary
blood splatters, but I knew my family’s home was surely flattened. I
(the lucky one, can you call me such a thing now?) had been
travelling back to Little Dewhurst from a nearby village when the
sirens began to howl. Now here I was, returned, with no-one to greet
me but the wicked smoke.

Amid the destruction, there were reminders of the life we had once
lived together. A child’s doll lay abandoned in the rubble, its once-
cherished form now twisted and broken; the remains of a loaf of
bread sat near the ruins of a bakery, a cruel reminder of the bustling
business that had once sustained the town; and a lone flower,
miraculously still alive, poked through the rubble defiantly,
mutinously.

I looked to the sky as if I might see the man who flew that plane,
pushed that release button, and destroyed it all. But he was long
gone: in his place only of fury of smoke remained. The sky was a
funeral today. Although it was noon, the heavens had donned their
black mourners’ gowns and swaddled the sun in wreaths of black
lace until no rays of light could protrude. Wisps of once-white clouds
had joined the procession of mourners; they too wore garments of
the deepest black to signal their condolences to the world below.
And the wake, the village’s send-off, consisted of naught but ash as
the sky wept goodbye tears of soot down onto Little Dewhurst. Ash
drifted onto my tongue, ash tarnished my clothing, and ash sutured
itself into my nightmares to come. My whole world – nothing but
ash. The sky – nothing but the murkiest and most unforgiving
blackness.

Forcing my eyes downwards, I saw with a sharp shock a little girl so

bedecked in soot you might miss her for another pile of burning
cinders (did I look like that too?). Smoke shrouded her tiny form, thin
from years of strict rations. She was crouching on the floor, her leg
snapped in an unnatural angle. She cradled a tabby cat in her
trembling arms, its fur matted and dusty from the chaos. The girl’s
tiny fingers clung to the cat’s fur as if it were the only thing that
made sense to her. A hushed stillness enveloped them, broken only
by the occasional sigh of crumbling debris.

And now I compelled myself to look where I have been refusing to

let my eyes settle: my own home, two doors down from the
obliterated bakery. Here, where the walls once embraced us with
warmth and security, now stood a haunting remnant of the life we
knew. Memories of sun-drenched days flooded my mind, pushing
away the reality of what I saw before me: my home, my whole
world, my family, levelled to the ground. No hope remained in the
aftermath of this blitzkrieg. Atomised, razed, demolished: my home
had been utterly and immeasurably destroyed. The shattered
windows, once alive with morning light, now reflected only
fragments of life lost. As I stood amidst the devastation, the echoes
of my family’s laughter were replaced by a deafening silence, and I
could not yet allow myself to picture their faces or whisper their
names. It was too cruel, too impossible to admit that such innocents
had been sacrificed for a war across our shores. The scars of war’s
merciless hand traced jagged paths on the walls, etching the story
of lives shattered.

This had once been a town of simple pleasures: a growing flower

stretching towards the sun, a baker setting up shop for the day, a
doll gifted to a child for their birthday. All had been obliterated as if
to remind us foolish humans that our lives were fleeting and our
happiness was not a god-given constant. Still, the girl clung to that
tabby cat: the last vestige of a world now destroyed.
Example 2 Techniques:

 Zoom out – long shot: describe the whole scene in detail

and mention something that you will return to at the end of
your description.

 Zoom in: pick one detail, make it symbolic, and describe it in

depth. This could be a good opportunity for an extended
metaphor.

 Change perspective: imagine the scene through the eyes of

somebody who is there – what are they feeling?

 Zoom in again: pick another symbolic detail to describe in

depth. Pick something contrasting to your earlier symbol.

 Emotional ending: finally circle back to something

mentioned in your opening paragraph, highlighting the
emotional atmosphere.

Memories of Cherry Blossom Season

It was April, and the time had come again for Tokyo to be velveted in
a pink blanket. Shinjuku National Garden, vast and winding, was
bustling with life: lovers made eyes in pedalos on the lake; a pretty
girl posed for photos with petals in her hair; a tourist hunted for the
best picnic location, dodging and diving around swarms of
sightseers; and my grandfather held my sticky little hand, as I
looked up at the blooms with awe-struck eyes. The air hummed with
the click of cameras, the burble of conversation in a tapestry of
languages, and the insistent shrieks of the cicadas. Cameras,
conversationalists, and cicadas alike had all united here for a
singular purpose: cherry blossom season had arrived.
Winter had been long. I remember that December that year had
been brutal, bracing, unrelenting. Distantly, distantly, I recall biting
cold mornings, snow crunching underfoot, and my dad bundling me
four layers deep before taking me to school. Perhaps because of
this, the bees were particularly thankful for Shinjuku’s reawakening
landscape that year. One such bee danced gracefully between
blossoms, bathed in the soft embrace of the late afternoon sun. Its
tiny form, a marvel of intricate design, moved with an inherent
rhythm, as if nature’s heartbeat were channelled through its
translucent wings. The bee’s body shimmered like liquid gold,
catching the sunlight in an iridescent dance. Delicate wings brushed
against the petals; each touch was a renewal of life, a promise of
another sunrise, another blossoming flower.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the park in a rosy glow, and
peering intently at the bees hovering from flower to flower sat my
grandmother. She was hunkered down on a weathered bench, her
gaze drifting softly across the park. Every so often, she met my eyes
with a wink or blew my granddad a kiss. How many seasons had
they passed together? Had they once ridden pedalos with the
setting sun kissing their skin? How many blossoms had they
watched bloom and fall?

Softly, petals spiralled to the ground, scattering like stardust

beneath our feet. The floor was a confetti of blossoms, dusky pink,
alabaster, fuchsia and ivory, vibrantly alive. But soon, the march of
the crowds through the park ground the petals down into a soggy
mulch that clung to my shoes. Over time, raindrops and footsteps
would work together, coaxing the petals to merge with the soil,
creating a rich bed that would nourish the very trees from which
they had fallen.

It is April. I am no longer a little girl with sticky hands, and my

grandfather no longer walks me through Tokyo’s parks. But nature
does not heed the passage of time and has filled the skies with
fireworks of blossoms once more. It is very quiet here. Singular
petals fall from the trees above my grandparents’ grave before
winding down to earth. They find home on my clothes, in my hair.
When I close my eyes, I am back there, that April in the park when
cherry blossoms briefly brought the world to life. How precious it is,
to wait all year to see something so beautiful it cannot possibly last
beyond a week and to possess memories too beloved to ever be
replicated.