My maternal grandfather H.E.COLE (1883-1947) was born at Huggate, Yorkshire, where his father was the school’s headmaster. Soon afterward the family returned to their native East Anglia, settling in East Runton on the north Norfolk coast. It was there that H.E. grew up with his six siblings, and where he learned to love the countryside and its varying moods, its plants and animals, and its human inhabitants. Then, wishing to follow in his father’s footsteps, he trained to be a teacher at Saltley College, Birmingham, and began his career at a school in Beccles, Suffolk, where his paternal grandmother had been born. It was during this time that his love of writing poetry increased, and which was to continue during the rest of his life. He had many pieces published in county newspapers, and he eventually came to be known as the Bard of Ampthill, in Bedfordshire, where he was headmaster for over 20 years.

The following are a small sample of his published work, and illustrate his sensitivity, his humour, and his awareness of nature.

1.

WELCOME WINTER?

Do you like the chilly sunsets when

The sky is tinted red?

Or admire the chilly mornings

When it’s early out of bed?

Do you like the clocks ‘put back’ again      

With shortened hours of light?

The end of tennis, picnics, bowls?

The curtained room at night?

Will you love the ruddy beech-leaves as

They scatter on the path

And sing in joyous lilting tones

That autumn’s come at last?

Will you welcome scanning winter clothes

And find you need all new?

Look forward to the coughs and colds

And rain and sleet and snow?

Are you greeting coming autumn with

A face without a frown

And knowing that your bronchial tubes

Maybe will ‘get you down’?

It has tints of gorgeous beauty

The other months can’t show,

But welcome autumn? Winter?

A plain emphatic, No!

There, where the ruddy gleam of faded fern

And the dead bracken by the sparkling stream

Stand in their stiff array, I sit and dream.     

The sturdy oak-trees with their gnarled coats,

The chestnuts with their branches flung afar,

And tall grey birchen-trees my comrades are.

No primrose rears its yellow-pointed bud,

Nor cuckoo-pint its brilliant glowing head,

Nor snowdrop, nor the celandine: the flowers are dead.

The fields are stubble or of ploughland bare,

The hedge is barren of its larder-store.

Dull greyness stalks the land, and life seems o’er.

But as I ‘gainst an oak-bole stretch my palm,

I feel a warming glow both full and deep,

As of Omnipotence that rests in sleep.

Then rustling down there floats a lovely leaf,

Which, poising, searching, like a golden bee,

Selects the barest spot which it could see,

And as it settled in a golden glow

And finished once for all its aëry dance,

I wondered if it fell there just by chance.

Or if, by million years in wisdom grown,

Outstripping all the puny works of men,

It showed a charity beyond our ken.

Oh leaves, oh twisting, seeking, golden leaves

Whose rustling ripples lap your shining shore --

You move, in silent speech, our hearts the more.

His face was rugged, tanned, and deeply lined

With many a furrow etched by ceaseless toil:

His figure but a frame, distorted, warped

Like timbers which have stood long stress and strain.

And man, for all the sweat and grime of years,

But gave him sustenance e’en grudgingly.

In autumn life he stood within the grounds

Where joyous voices seldom can be heard.

But from the distance shouts from village green

Were carried, mingling soft with nearer notes.

A fresh’ning breeze, with just a hint of rain,

Was slanting all the branches round about

The sheltered garden in which thrushes sang;

And lengthening twilight merging into night

Brought memories of happier boyhood days.

And near at hand were clust’ring hazel boughs,

From which the catkins, ripe and golden-green,

Swung loosely in the misty evening breeze.

Lightly he touched them with a calloused hand,

And in his palm was poured a dust of gold.

Creak of cord and flap of sail,
Scream of gull, midst wind’s loud wail,
Smell of pitch, and wood, and tar,
Scent of cargoes from afar,
Rattling windlass, towering crane,
Quivering loads on giant chain,
Coal, and ice, and salt, and wood,
Timber, barrels, boxes, food,
Fluttering flags and pennants gay,
Drifters nosing sea-ward way,
Spume of foam at harbour-bar,
Trail of steamers’ smoke afar,
Steadfast eyes and ruddy faces,
Yarns of remote foreign places,
Tobacco, black and scented strong,
Wreaths amidst the bustling throng,
Life-belts, buoys, and building yards,
Skeletons on several ‘hards’,
Clang of hammer, roar of steam,
Vision of a Vulcan dream --
Such is England by the sea
With hardy men both brave and free.

I love blue smoke

When from thatched cottage issues forth

The smell of wood on frosty air;

Or, from a restful fireside pipe

It spirals upward rich and rare.

I love blue sky

When spring to summer merges forth,

Or e’en in driving springtime rain,

For, ‘hind the clouds in scudding race

The sun is striving forth again.

I love blue eyes

The dancing, mischief eyes of youth,

And, even when the ‘crows-feet’ show,

And face, maybe, is wrinkled, too,

And thinning hair is white as snow.

I love blue-bells

Whose nodding plumes besmear the hills

And scent the journeyed cuckoo’s call.

They challenge us in spite of years

Entice the feet and hearts enthrall.

Blue smoke, blue sky, blue eyes, blue-bells,

I love them all, those misty hues,

But oh! how distant do they seem

In this dull month -- when I’ve the ‘blues’.

You look so joyous, playing there,
Without a worry or a care;
With bronzèd skin and hair crisp curled
The happiest thing in all the world.

Play on, amidst the warm-gold sand,
And model with a cheerful hand
The castles, harbours, strong sea-walls
And pools and bubbling waterfalls.

I would that I could take away
The sharp-edged pebbles that would stay
Your walk across the sands of years,
And save you sorrow, pain, and tears.

But that is something I can’t do --
Smooth all the sands through life for you;
And storms will come and quickly break
The charming scenes that now you make.

Your future lot we may not guess,
It may be sorrow, happiness,
And full-flood tides before they fall
May seem to overwhelm your all.

But build on, child; though castles fall
One truth remains, the best of all --
That after storms, and stress, and pain,
The sands are all smoothed out again.

I know a cottage, thatched and old, that stands beside a hill,

So picturesque, so very quaint, so modest, and so sweet;

It hides behind a hawthorn hedge and peeps between the trees,

Protected from the winter’s blast and shaded in the heat.

There are flowers in the garden gay, of many a varied hue,

And many a clump of sweet pot-herbs to scent the air around,

There’s an orchard full of ancient trees, and many a laden bush,

And the neatest path of crazy-stone that ever could be found.

And the thatch is ripe and mellow, made of stoutest wheaten straw,

And the bricks are weathered deeply and its chimney squat and wide,

The door is low and twisted, its windows lattice-paned;

And it’s just as sweet and kindly if one takes a peep inside.

I’m sure it has no damp-proof course for walls to keep them dry,

And it hasn’t got a washing-place nor yet a boarded floor;

And all the water must be carried, too, perhaps a hundred yards.

And as for gas or “‘tricity” -- they’re dreams and nothing more.

The cottage is condemned, of course, ‘a hot-bed of disease’,

And with its inmate laid to rest, ‘twill pass and be forgot;

Yet somehow when it’s down and gone and tractor ploughs its bed,

I’ll miss its dear kind presence and the fragrance of the spot.

Beneath the shadows of a silver birch

A spring of purest water bubbles forth

And forms a pool at which the birds at dawn

Both drink and bathe, and where the timid life

Of common and of field doth browse the edge,

Then, bursting bounds, goes forth adventurous

To larger life.

And here the book-lime grows,

And hawthorns bloom, and mallard with his wives

All peer and poke in plenteous solitude.

Still further on it makes a quenching fount

Whence keeper’s cottage draws its modest needs,

And lordly pheasant proudly deigns to sip.

Then, gaining strength in volume and in voice,

And chattering as it runs, goes sparkling down

To modern life.

And here and there ‘twill pause

At brink of ledge; ‘twill pause, and pausing fall,

Just as a little child will hesitate,

Afraid to leap and risk the consequence

Till, overbalanced, jump, and, safely landed, laugh.

Below the bend three cottages still stand

In which live folk to beauty ill-attuned;

For here the stream is marred with empty tins

And broken crocks, and midden refuse foul.

And rats with baleful eyes and fetid breath

Beneath the alder roots do live and breed.

Above, upon a slender fragile bough,

Above the spot where ugliness is worst,

A feathered songster at the dawn of day

Raised up his voice to God in Heav’n and sang,

And sang as if his little heart would burst.

The long vista of the country lane looks blue,

Brown are the fertile furrows newly turned.

The sanguine west promising a fairer morrow,

Darkens, eager to don its ev’ning hue.

The tilled field pregnant with hidden power,

The budding trees and hedgerows subtly scented,

The babbling stream, long muted and imprisoned,

Unbound, unite to sanctify the hour.

So moves the long-drawn night to morning vernal;

So comes an end to weary toil and pain:

For sorrow, joy; for frowns, the smiling gladness;

From ashes, life; and so the tale eternal.

I’ve often pondered as I’ve sat within a barber’s chair,

The little problem that to me seems neither right nor fair;

And that is why a wriggling boy with hair as thick as thatch,

Should pay much less that I who have but little hair to scratch!

I saw a lad quite recently with hair like golden fire,

And stiff it was, without a doubt, like bits of twisted wire.

Not for a moment was he still, he’d wriggle, twist, and squirm

Just like a frog, an eel, a newt, or like an upturned worm!

The barber snipped in silence (and went purple in the neck!)

And when he’d trimmed the wretched boy he looked a nervous wreck.

He took at least quite half an hour as near as I could say

And when the task was finished he took fourpence for his pay.

Then ‘twas my turn, I’d waited long: so in the chair I popped

And before you’d say ‘Jack Robinson’ my hair was cut and cropped.

I sat as still as any mouse the barber’s work to ease

Who, when he’d trimmed my scanty locks, said ‘Ninepence, if you please.’

I know I’m more than bald on top: in fact, there’s but a fringe

Which runs behind from ear to ear which he can cut and singe.

But why a wriggling little imp, just fivepence less should pay

For thrice the time and much more hair is more than I could say.

And so I took my problem which to solve I’ve often tried,

To the knight who wields the scissors, and briefly he replied:

‘I charge threepence for the cutting, which I think is right and fair,

And sixpence for the time it takes in searching for the hair!’

11.

AUTUMN

I hear long heavy showers that sweep
Throughout a chilling night.
A laggard sun at morn
Shows redly bright.

The ebbing tide of life runs fast:
And, glancing o’er the streams,
The hawking swallows fly
In slanting beams.

‘Tis work to build, to store, prepare,
There is no easeful way
For those who seek the dawning of
Another day.

Yes! All an endless quest is life,
And short its fleeting hours.
God grant, the questing done,
That rest be ours.

12.

OLD CHURCH ROOF BEAMS

(Removed during repairs to a church roof)

Ranged by the churchyard wall we lie;
Black, worm-holed, weakened, spurned,
Objects of curiosity.
Danced on by impish childish feet,
Soon to be sold and burned,
This our Gethsemane!

Yet we were consecrate; and sanctified
Strong, faithful servants of the Lord
To stand and wait,
Guardian through the rolling centuries,
Witness of the deed and spoken Word
This our reward!

Pass we to dust: and thou with quicker step,
Yet hesitating, fearful, on the selfsame way
Wilt follow on.
We, carved in oaken wood: thou in His likeness:
Yet, in thy faith, canst say
Thou art as strong?

13.

MY WARMING PAN

Upon a wall, like burnished gold,
There hangs my warming pan:
(My great-grandmother bought it when
She wed her perfect man).

And every night through winter months
‘Twas filed with glowing embers,
And warmed the chilly wintry bed
As long as one remembers.

Then down the family ‘twas bequeathed.
Its handsome shining face
(With candle, night-cap, flannel gown)
Still hung in honoured place.

And when my brother and I were lads,
And at our grandma’s slept,
The same old pan would warm the sheets
Ere into bed we leapt.

Then we were told that warming pans
Were not even for the old;
‘Twas better far on chilly nights
To use a bed that’s cold!

But as I gaze -- perhaps I dream --
It gives a knowing wink,
And asks: ‘Were all your forebears wrong?
Please say just what you think!’

Of course I had to answer ‘No.’
And one night soon I’ll choose it
When I hear the cold north-easter rage
And jolly well I’ll use it!

14.

STATION POSTERS

Come where the sun shines always,
But with a tender cooling breeze
To make those dazzling sparkles
That cap the bluest seas.

Come where there’s no such thing as work!
No need to toil or worry.
No need to catch the 7.42.
No need at all to hurry.

Come where all are so happy!
No rent, no rates to pay,
No bills, demands for income tax
-- Just happiness all the day.

Oh, come where e’en the oldest folk,
The crippled, halt, and lame,
Rejuvenated, spring to life
And join in every game.

Where cheeks and limbs all glow with health,
Where teeth are strong and fair,
Where no one ever does grow old
And all have curly hair!

Where, down to the humblest villager,
Down to the errand boy,
Have but one thought, one precious thought
-- How to complete your joy!

Oh, come where there are no lorries,
No warning ‘Stop’ and ‘Go’,
Oh, come to our railway station
Where the advert posters glow!

15.

STILL NOT SATISFIED

A cold and dreary night, good sirs,
A hundred years ago;
The world enthroned with darkest murk,
With fog, and ice, and snow.

And down the lane a labourer’s cot;
Brick floor, oak beams, and thatch;
Small diamond windows, gaping hearth,
And ingle-nook to match.

Much sodden clay bemired the lane,
Down which the peasant trudged
Towards the feeble rushy-light
The windows seemed to grudge.

His fat-smeared boots squeaked painfully;
They hardly held together
The whiles he carried water home
And cursed the wretched weather!

But now the lane is paved and drained,
Much widened, and well lighted;
The buses run near all the night,
And none need be benighted.

The water comes in from the main;
The electric light defies
The gloom without; and from the street
The raucous newsboy cries.

A car runs up the gravelled drive;
Four men get out together;
A golfing week-end party -- and
They curse the wretched weather!

16.

THE LAWN

I peep from opened window in the morn,
And see before me stretched a shaven lawn,
All dewy-dappled in the early light
So fresh and green, and scintillating bright.

And thereon hops a thrush, a noble bird,
Whose fluting song last night I stood and heard,
Who, up before the sun, ere yet ‘twas light,
Is searching with prodigious appetite.

He turns his head, his ear bent to the sod,
And with his dagger-beak he prick the clod;
Unerring instinct guides the hungry thrust,
And one more worm comes from the earthen crust.

And, near at hand, in sober garments dressed,
His lady-love pursues her likely quest,
Her appetite well-sharpened, as she begs
A brief respite from incubating eggs.

Another pair now come upon the scene,
A man and maid who both seem very keen
The garden to perambulate awhile
And then to pause, to sniff, and stroll off with a smile.

So thrush, or man and maid, ‘tis all the same,
And breakfast just as good by any name.
A thrush, a lawn, a worm from it just taken:
For me the coffee, toast, and frizzled bacon.
 

17.

WOODS IN SUMMER

I love the woods at early morn;
For there, with dewy steps I mark my way
Though leaf-strewn paths whose distant end is hid.
But roofed above with growing hues of dawn,
And pearly streaks down-shafting silently
Illuminate the giant trunks with tender glow
And soon the furtive ramblers of the night
Take warning, and to secret haunts return reluctantly.

I love the woods at sunny noon,
For then the smell of scented sun-kissed pines
Doth greet my nostrils; and from splitting cones
All suddenly the ripened seeds are thrown.
And tree tops far above in graceful sway
Are mirrored in the placid glade below
With silent movements of the shade and light:
And rest, and peace, and love here rule the day.

I love the woods at quiet eve,
When darkening shadows creep, embrace, absorb --
Until a mystic spell upon me falls --
And in my careless soul impressions leave.
I see the cruel horrors of the past;
I see the glory of the future years:
With well-tuned ear I hear the words, ‘I am
Throughout the ages, aye, the First and Last’.
 

18.

THE MAVIS SINGS

The hedgerows are withered with winter’s grim frost,
And the black-budded ash-trees are bare,
The fir-trees are sodden; the bracken all dead,
And there’s scarcely a sound in the air.
Then over the coppice there steals a new warmth,
Which tells of the coming of spring,
And clear, liquid notes are borne to my ear,
Of a mavis which stood there to sing.

The storm-clouds may gather and sweep overhead,
And the fog blot out all sight and sound,
And the wind-driven snow for many a day
May level the ditches around.
But the mavis will wait with his head to the breeze,
For the south wind’s warm hovering wings,
And as soon as he senses its favouring touch,
He stands up and joyously sings.

He understands not the turn of the year
By calendars favoured by men,
But he reads all the signs, the slight, pregnant signs,
Of river, and moorland, and fen.
And he sings of green rows of new wheaten blades,
(A theme he delight in to bring),
And we know that bare fields are pulsing with life
When he joyously stands there to sing.

[Note: ‘Mavis’ is the country name for a song-thrush]