SHARING & CELEBRATING
Student Voice
LAND AS TEACHER BY LEANNA, GRADE 12
This essay was selected as the 2026 recipient of the Mona Wily Essay Prize. Established in 1954 by student Betty Little, the prize honours Miss Wily, then Head of the English Department and Vice-Principal at Crofton House under Dr Jessie Gordon. Each year, Grade 12 students are invited to submit one essay that best represents their writing achievement in their English studies. The submission must be a piece written in class and formally assessed by their English teacher. Alongside the essay, students include a brief statement explaining why they believe their work merits nomination, highlighting its style, depth of thought, and originality.
Read more student stories in the Crofton Chronicle Summer Edition!
At the northeast corner of Devonshire park, there is a staircase. It’ s elevated and made of stone. As it wraps around a tree or two, the stone disappears and you find your foot pressed against luscious green. Standing at the bottom of it, looking up, the park felt grand. To me, it was clear: the staircase must be the entrance. Even though I live on the other side, I would make it a habit to wrap around the park fully before entering from the staircase. Large willows framed the entrance with their drooping branches and flowing leaves. To enter, I had to brush my finger through the willow’ s cascading branches, coaxing a narrow passage to open between the veils of leaves. Once I stepped through the gap, a wash of green filled my vision. To a younger me, this park was a forest.
At the centre of the park is an oak tree, the branches are splintering, and even when it’ s not autumn, the leaves
fall. float snap twist
The great oak’ s branches stretched several metres into the sky, its crown towering high above. From one of the thick limbs hung a wooden plank, secured by ropes tightly wound around the branch. The swing was a constant, a silent agreement between everyone living around the park. When the rope began to fray, someone replaced it; when the plank splintered, someone sanded it down. No one ever said who, but somehow, we all did. I grew up beneath the shadow of this oak, the rustle of its leaves
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