Hidden in the forest . . .

In my previous blog post, I mentioned the late Ivor Ball, the father of one of my best friends, Dickie Ball. I remember on one occasion, when I had my very first poem published in the local church magazine, that Ivor challenged me over it as he didn't believe that I could write poetry. Rising to the challenge I demanded pen and paper and sat down to write the following poem which is called Memories. It was to form the title poem for my first book, encouraged by Ivor's wife Aggie, whom I dearly loved and referred to as 'Mum Ball'. Anyway, I thought that you might like to read it for yourself dear reader, so here it is, exactly as it was written down in the space of about fifteen minutes, all those years ago.

Memories

Hidden in the forest
where the trees grow thick and strong,
there's a cottage, small and humble,
where I lived when I was young.

There's a yellow roof of thatch,
and a rough red chimney there,
with diamond-latticed windows
letting in the cool fresh air.

When work was finished for the day
in peace I hurried home,
through the trees so thick and handsome,
where as a child I'd roam.

A smiling face would greet me
hot dinner on the grate;
but this day all was lonely,
'twas so early, yet so late.

No smoke came from the chimney,
no whispers filled the air:
but the memories still haunt me
of my mother smiling there.

Now many years have crept along;
I sadly realise
that never shall I see again
the love-light in her eyes.

Till I walk down the cobbled path,
and lift that rusty latch:
till memory brings back again
my home with the yellow thatch.

I was a boy of fifteen when I wrote that, and the book was published in 1966 when I was a young man of 22 years of age. My, how tempus fugit!

Sometimes I ponder on where these words for the poems and songs come from. It's as though they are locked away in the annals of my mind, waiting for the right trigger to send them hurtling through time and onto the page. I have absolutely no idea how this particular poem came about in reality. Some people have asked whether it describes the home that I lived in when I was a child, or even a composite of several homes, but the answer is a resounding 'NO'. Perhaps it's an image of a home that I might have liked to live in, who knows?

I guess that the best thing to do is to accept that all of these things come as a gift from God, and serve the purpose of pleasing many people down through the ages. Perhaps, in this instance, you might imagine, dear reader, that I'm describing your home, or at least one that you might have loved. Certainly, re-reading the poem over the years has given me a great deal of pleasure, and is certainly aptly titled, Memories.