12 MARCH 1988, Page 32

The Forester

He had left Burma the longest way, retreating Northwards. He hardly ever spoke of it; rarely Some fragment would out-crop — the rivers, the leeches — A story told as interesting merely.

He had been a forester. When all was over, The long march and the war, he awhile worked on In other parts of the East — descendant of soldiers And empire-builders in an empire gone.

But singular, not of any type. He would Quote Milton and Gray to me. And once, long retired (He told me) by chance on the other side of the world In Trinidad, walking on leaves he heard And felt, smelt, tasted Burma — there young, complete, Before he saw it was teak-fall at his feet. E. J. Scovell