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He spent his youth time wandering, the fields and woods alone,

Among hedgerows, streams and by ways, near his cottage home,

To keep these simple things, that had been his delight,

His country beckoned him, to leave his home and fight.

So green and simply tutored, he had to learn to share

That rough humiliation, upon the brutal square.

And leave his loving homeland for Kipling's sunny clime,

To witness degradation, and also things sublime.

With many routine duties, to suffer and discharge

Youth was tempered slowly, in the furnace of the Raj.

Those frequent homespun letters that he with care would horde

Maintained throughout the years, love's umbilical cord.

From home a loving father sent out a book of rhyme

That told of England's seasons, of spring and summer time.

It spoke of Cotswold villages, of simple rural themes;

Whenever he was homesick, it rekindled childhood dreams.

This book became his treasure, sustained him in rough times,

That inspiring Cotswold poet with his simple country rhymes.

But in those days of conflict there was no hiding place

His treasured book was riddled by that other race.

He could, with help of memory, read still between each hole:

Despite the wounds, the book still kept its therapeutic role.

Now many years have passed away, yet still he has the book.

In times of stress he takes it down to have another look.

On the page is written, words that father sent out to his boy

"My dear son, may this jewel, fill thy heart with joy."

One day, when he has shuffled off his mortal coil,

Some one will find it on a shelf and try so to recall

Why was it that he kept this old and battered tome?

Not knowing, that therein was hid, such love and thoughts of home

©Arthur F Mylam