1.
Sweet Blaisdon, loveliest village of the name,
by chance I come back here to live again.
There smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
while Summer Autumn’s blooms delayed.
Dear lovely haven of innocence and ease,
joy of my youth, where every face did please.
In bygone times I wandered Velde House Lane,
stood by its gates to watch the passing train.  
Oft, have I sensed and seen thy every charm:
strolled Nottswood height, gazed on Stud Farm,
loitered by Longhope Brook, aside the water Mill,
heard St. Michael’s bells peal over Cinder’s Hill.
Now in my Winter years The White Hart bench
awaits where often I was wont my thirst to quench.
In mind, above plum tree blossom watching over all,
I clearly see the stately tower of noble Blaisdon Hall.

2.
Remembrance is music whose sweet refrain
echoes as I flee the spheres of peopled pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
in all my griefs, of which I’ve had my share,
I still have hopes, my final years to crown,
here in Blaisdon before I lay me down;
to trim life’s guttering candle to its close,
to fan a gem-like flame from dying. In repose.
I still have hopes, dear Muse attend me still,
to show the curious my life-learned skill,
in open forum a growing group to draw,
to tell in poems of all I felt, and all I saw.
For, as a fox whom hound and horse pursue,
flees to the place from whence at first it flew,
I still fond hopes hold, my long travails past,
here to return, recline, to die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
I find at last all I never thought was mine.
How happy man who crowns, in years like these
a toiling youth of labour with such an age of ease.

Tobias - after Oliver Goldsmith.

I entered school at Blaisdon Hall,
when everybody seemed so tall:
but when I finished being taught,
all my chums in height were short.

The invention of a former cook,
fed the progress of my build and look,
along with spuds - best of Stud Farm crop,
and regular pudding known as "FLOP"

Wilfred Higginbotham was his name:
t'was from Manchester that he came.
Before him the chef was Mr. Higgins:
toupee-topped, nicknamed “Wiggins.”

Very wobbly on a pushbike:
Wilfred was (as they say today) "like"
sort of fat.  Yet, tha' knows
very light upon his toes.

If in the mood and no kerfuffle,
he'd do a lively soft shoe shuffle.
Opera trained - Wilfred was a singer:
for a famous Welsh tenor a dead ringer...

By the serving hatch, his apron gravy stained,
melodious, cheerful, unrestrained
he'd make the pots and kettles ring
as from the repertoire he'd gaily sing..

....selections de La Traviatta, La Boheme,
in his opinion "la crème de la crème"
and other classic arias with aplomb
in the style of Harry Secombe.

Now Wilfred’s "FLOP" a sort of madeira cake:
from the kitchen hatch the server would take
a warmish, deep presenting tray,
where puffed up inviting, there it lay.

Father "Bulldog" Wilson then would cut a slice,
take a bite - declare it “Nice!”
Alas! his knife released the air,
that wily Wilf had mixed in there.

Like a balloon pricked by a pin,
silently within the cooling tin
the cake collapsed. What a ****!
Wilf (t'was said) had used a stirrup pump.

Wilfred - as a baker- didn't cut the mustard,
but he was a dab hand when it came to custard!
A portion of his added magic yellow liquor
made the deflated "Flop!" taste thicker.

What was served up, had a fleeting taste
and was scoffed down in a fitful haste,
thus pleased I am to here relate,
not a trace of "FLOP!" was left upon the plate.

Whatever came of Wilf, I'll never know:
back up North, to ailing mum he had to go.
But still his pudding can invoke
such sensual sentiments all beyond a joke.

Early on in life Marcel Proust's nibbled madelaine,
a lifetime later, when dipped in tea,
and tasted once again, had power to regain
lost time and illuminate his memory.

So it is with me and as I thought
of cher Marcel, an evocative poem was wrought:
"FLOP"!" inspires the 1950s when I recall,
those schoolboy meals in Blaisdon Hall.

TOBIAS

I have tried to imagine my world without you:
summer swarming bees, distant Cotswold peaks
hidden in snow. The beauty of autumn mornings
along Blaisdon's remembered country roads;
a sunlit river Severn beyond Westbury, the
whirr of pheasants at spring midday and
the calling of owls towards midnight.

Now I know that none of it is the same
without you. But most of all I will never
forget your smile, your eyes your
gentleness and giving, your loyalty
and caring for old friends: *** Carter,
Frank and Elsie Hogg, in particular.
The memories we treasured, the
enjoyments we shared.

The love is forever there
despite time or distance -
clarified through tears.
So today I celebrate that
you existed; thanking
all of life for your life,
expressing my deepest
gratitude that out of
millions of people
and possibilities
our lives were destined
to be intermingled.

As in sorrow,  I mourn your passing,
I know clearly and forever my world
can never be the same: Without You.

TOBIAS