Eric Fell Holden

Eric was came to Goldings 1955 and was in Aberdeen House.
Eric’s trade was as a Printer
He also made lots of contributions to the Goldonian as his pastime and
Hobbies were more Literary.
He liked poetry and writing stories which I believe he still does today.
Also photography was his passion.

Here are a couple of poems from his days at Goldings 1957

A Walk At Dusk
Splash—you turn round quickly only to see a moorhen submerge into the river. You carry on walking
as the evening is again quiet. The jarring crys of moorhens and cootes sharply stabs the silence.
Swallows skim the water for insects and chirp happily, while higher up in the sky the swifts twist and
turn with amazing skill and speed. A water vole swims silently across the river. It sees you and
noiselessly disappears into the slowly moving water. On the opposite bank a mouse quickly nibbles at
a young shoot.
With the snap of a dead twig, you melt in to the darkness of the wood. The muffled screech of an owl
takes your attention. A few more screeches this time of young owls, getting fed by the parent bird up
one of the big, tall trees. Birds are busily chirping in the nearby bushes, as they get ready to roost for
the night.
Stealthily a squirrel climbs up the trunk of a tree. It jumps and gracefully glides through the air.
A young branch sways as the squirrel lands on it and quickly jumps off onto another branch higher up
the tree. Slowly you walk away from the woods,
the birds and animals—save the nocturnal birds and creatures—retire quietly into the night,

Derek also took the photograph of the baby owl

A Winter's Morn
The sun comes over the hill,
And the earth is still.
Snow glistens white on the ground,
Quiet! no sound!
A blackbird sweetly sings,
Of summer's past things.
Then more birds join in,
And with joyfulness sing.
So mankind awake,
To destroy—or create.


"Goldings" with its beauty fair,
Exotic pictures everywhere.
Animals, buildings, trees and birds.
"Beauty," seldom expressed in words.

Wings of Wisdom
Birds fly! Men fly! Why?
Birds fly through the air
With freedom and care.
Men fly for evil means,
For sinful, earthly things.


A short story 1957


First prize-winning entry
submitted by Eric Holden.

A Family More I Miss:
The Boy Me, my thought; me does,
is this: the tender home of bliss?

The curl-up sleep of silent joy;
me thought, my does, is this:

the bed where I does miss?
Is this: boy, where rests when I,

a coast away, that view the isle:
can only look, this picture book, and gaze.

Me does, me thinks, I miss more havens
of happiness;
the crumpled cove of comfort closed, and this:

me thinks, me does, I know, feel pangs
I cannot show, but wait awhile, and stare, and this:

me thinks, I know, I does.

William Fell Holden ( Eric ) 2020

Eric has also wrote his Autobiography
Don’t Come Crying Home,
a very good read.
He has wrote other books available
on Amazon under the name of
William Fell Holden.

Page Compiled May 2020

All images and text copyright © to Goldings Old Boys reunion members

Poem In Rembrandt Gardens
Who thought that I should ever die?
Not I, not I.
Who could think that I would sink
and cry?
Not I, not I.
Who could gather, like I'd never,
a flock of lies?
Not I, not I.

What is a life, without reflection?
a time for sorrow, a space for action;
no contradiction, no sure affliction;
only a stream of happenings, only
a weave of interactions -
of relationships and their refraction.

Nothing is simple, though plain
at the start:
emotions grow clear and
then depart:
in the beginning, we return at last
to the place where rests the silent heart.