The Field Club Member

Born in eighteen-sixty-seven,
In a country rectory
Hidden in the hills of Devon—
Clear my childhood memory!

Still I see its bricks and freestone
Blending several Gothic styles,
Ball-flower on the front-door keystone,
Roof of variegated tiles.

In his belted Norfolk jacket
Of ecclesiastic grey:
Luncheon in its neat-tied packet—
Dad would set off for the day.

Touring round the ancient churches,
Gaunt and upright on his bike—
Mildly Gothic his researches,
All else viewed with vague dislike.

Then at tea, what tales of crocket
Cusp and spandril, heard we then;
Notebook whipped from inner pocket,
Vaulting sketched with rapid pen!

Sometimes on our bikes together,
Eager schoolgirl, parish priest,
Confident, not doubting whether
We'd enjoy our Gothic feast.

Hunting round for Perp. piscinas,
Low-side windows, stained glass (Dutch),
Vowing that we'd never seen as
Fine a font as such-and-such.

Now I live like some poor spectre,
Shadow of a far-off day.
Still the rectory stands: the rector
Long has lain beneath the clay.

Yet some days, beyond all doubting
I relive those past so long#151;
At the monthly summer outing
Of the Field Club, sixty strong!

There among the fonts and brasses,
Easter sepulchres and screens,
Nice folk of the leisured classes
Dream once more of childhood's scenes.

⋜ 1937