Did you go to that place of the timorous tiger,
and look in awe in at an elephant with a very long ear,
which, according to legend was faithfully followed by a cow,
mooing in tune to God Save The Queen,
that wistful sound echoing across those mist-covered hills from the army camp?
I asked the spirit of my great-granddad, regimental Padre Beauchamp,
derided by his family as a 19th century misanthrope?

And did you condemn Lieutenant Lionel Tigworthy-Teague
and his mistress, Millie, who, treading softly though the
jungle hoping for an illicit embrace – disturbed your 
daily prayer for friends lost in the Indian Mutiny,
slain in that fight before the ramshackle defences of Cawnpore?

Perhaps, I mused, he wished to reach out to them,
but instead turned away from their congress.

I received no answer of course, yet the cow mooed in sympathy
and the quiet tiger roared, but the elephant simply nodded its sagacious head,
as I sobbed bitterly in that valley of the slain.

But I was reliably told (by a regimental historian),
that on parade next day my great-grandad, hugging a Bible,
had noticed the lieutenant’s scorn-filled glance at him,
as he jumped while conducting morning service,
startled when the sergeant reprimanded private Littlefrance, after he dropped his rifle.

But in his anxiety to remain aloof, as a good misanthrope should,
he ignored the glance from unfaithful mistress Millicent,
clapping her husband Major Bunty-Blowflitt,
bowling a maiden over in the Civil Service versus Army cricket match,
wondering if she knew the padre was aware of her secret,
as he set off on his daily pilgrimage, to again seek comfort with a tiger
and its odd-looking elephantine companion,
taking comfort that he was not the only one regarded as ‘queer’.

For being whispered about as a ‘poof’, while in the service of God,
can turn a military man away from the fife and drum.

Is that why you discarded your holy raiment and joined the road sweepers,
and those other Indian Untouchables whom the soldiers called ‘scum?’ I deigned to ask.

But walking along that valley as a 20th century tourist,
saying a prayer for great-grandfather Beauchamp,
I seemed to spark a friendly roar from the tiger,
but couldn’t see that faithful cow following behind its elephantine idol,
or hear its patriotic God Save The Queen.

Well, even a devoted pilgrim can change its tune,
I mused, as I gratefully accepted a ride on the back of the elephant with a long ear,
and imagined that scornful lieutenant and his mistress,
following behind arraigned in native dress,
paying homage to the spirit of a much-maligned regimental padre.