I felt dislike when first we met
      More than forty years of old,
      But these years on I feel a debt
      And my story should be told.

      At school it was my final year
      The class of forty nine.
      This teacher came like a glass of beer
      That later turned to wine.
  
      Holland his name; I remember well.
      Dutchy to us from the start.
      Upon the man there was a spell
      Of music, literature and art.

      It was hard to find bad music,
      The written word was an art,
      The theatre aways was in his mind
      And Shakespeare lived in his heart.

      Now poetry read by us was a drone,
      'Your murdering the rhyme,' he said.
      Recited in shaky monotone,
      It would fall to the floor quite dead.

      But when Dutchy read the rhyme,
      The lines would come to life.
      His words slowing down time
      The silence could be cut with a knife.

      Now I look back through that tunnel of time
      To poetry's liberation:
      To the man who brought life to rhyme,
      To the master of narration.

      No doubt by now he's passed away,
      There'd be tears on many a face.
      And I wonder if what I write today
      With him, may have found a place.

                        Bob Ollier