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I was a ‘war evacuee’ in my early days,
A child of the city, knowing naught of country ways;
Off I went to Wales and soon settled on the farm,
Played in fields and woods without finding any harm.
I had no fear of animals and would often chase the cows,
When they wandered through the garden — the runner beans to browse.
Up at the crossroads a wild white horse I found,
With a chain around his leg staked into the ground;
I thought this very cruel and wished to set him free,
Then ran away in terror when he charged right up to me.
I had to pass him every day on the way to school,
I had no choice attending — it was the golden rule.
The lessons were all taught in Welsh, there was no English heard,
So I had to learn that language to understand a word.
I spoke in Welsh quite fluently for many years to come,
But promptly forgot it all when I returned back home.
As a child in wartime it didn’t seem so bad,
How can you really miss the things that you have never had?
We all grew up with ‘rationing’ and never much to spare,
But folks would help each other and what they had, they’d share.
I look back with fond memory to the days when war did end,
And each and every neighbour was also a good friend.

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