Part 2 — 1915

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, And you've been everything, Dear, you've been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that's good.

What life to lead and where to go After the War, after the War? We'd often talked this way before But I still see the brazier glow That April night, still feel the smoke And stifling pungency of burning coke. I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills, North Wales, a cottage full of books, Pictures and brass and cosy nooks And comfortable broad window-sills, Flowers in the garden, walls all white, I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write." But Willy said "No, Home's no good Old England's quite a hopeless place I've lost all feeling for my race: But France has given me heart and blood Enough to last me all my life I'm off to Canada with my wee wife. "Come with us, Mac, old thing," but Mac Drawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me, A warm green jewel in the South Sea. There's merit in a lumber shack And labour is a grand thing ... but Give me my hot beach and my cocoanut." So then we built and stocked for Willy A log-hut, and for Mac a calm Rockabye cradle on a palm— Idyllic dwellings—but this silly Mad War has now wrecked both, and what Better hopes has my little cottage got? July, 1915.