Six poems by G.A. Hollis appear in “Servigliano Calling,” Robert Dickinson’s journal.
Sometimes when I’m sweating in the blist’ring desert heat,
I dream about my birth-place, with it’s age old village seat,
I see the carter’s cottage half-way down the lane,
With the river at the bottom; and I long for home again.
And when sandstorms turn the desert into a raging, stinging hell,
I see my own back garden, with it’s fruit trees and the well,
I smell the apple blossom as it sways upon the bough,
While the busy buzzing tractor is straining at the plough.
Sometimes in the evening, as I watch the darkening sky,
I wonder if the same old moon is shining there, on high,
Upon those red tiled roof-tops, and the village green so neat,
Casting long weird shadows down the quilined village street.
And when this strife is over, and I shall at last return,
I’ll thank the Lord, my Maker, who gave me grace to learn,
That, no matter what my station wherever I may roam,
England is my heritage my one and only home.