The lurching, mechanical behemoth, staggered across the horizon. Steam escaped from its flapping, copper gills around its molten, terraced neck, more fervently with the heavy creaking of every lift of every step. The machine was purposeful, driven by an inner will and unflinching in its march. Its fists clenched, powering forward. Its iron flanks resounded thunderously as the weight of its gilded limbs pushed through and across the scarlet drenched, crepuscular landscape.
In the foreground, wall eyed and paled faced, the onlookers gazed on as the monstrous beast seemed to engorge itself on everything it came into bullish contact with, obliterating any vestiges of natural beauty it stumbled and trampled upon. Helpless, hopeless and hapless, they watched as everything they held sacred disappeared before their watering eyes.
The last surviving bluebell sat prettily, ensconced in a clump of moist grass, growing dewy in the twilight. Its strong, bold, emerald green stem shone, and its up-shooting leaves shivered and danced tenderly as the evening brought a chill. Its delicate, lilac head dropped in content slumber, unconscious of its natural beauty, perfectly at home and secure by the edge of the path before the wood. A solitary and minuscule spider began to weave its gossamer thread betwixt and between the trembling petals, and a ray of sienna sunset bounced upon the web.
The gargantuan, monstrous beast raised its knee in its next inevitable stride forward. It lowered its iron hoof. The last bluebell was crushed.
(Of schools as we know them).