On one wall of the newsroom of my first newspaper, the Cornish and Devon Post in Launceston, was a framed poster. A poem by Charles Causley. Innocent?s Song:

Who?s that knocking on the window,

Who?s that standing at the door,

What are all those presents

Lying on the kitchen floor?

It struck me that the lines sounded like the lyrics of a pop song. Not surprising. Charles opened the door for the ?pop? poets of the 60s. His work was often light and lyrical, easy on mind and eye, accessible. More than any other writer of his generation, he was the people?s poet.

I first met him almost 30 years ago and, despite the generation between us, we quickly became friends.

I once heard a university academic dismiss Charles? poetry as being ?rather jolly heave-ho stuff?. That said more about the academic?s ignorance than it did of Charles? poetry. His work was deceptively simple. Beneath its smooth surface there lay a landscape.

Charles was born in Launceston in 1917. His father, a Devon man, died when Charles was seven. His mother took on many tasks to keep herself and her only child.

At school, a ?remarkable teacher?, B F Hobby, became a father-figure and, recognising early signs of Charles? talent, encouraged him to write.

Charles detested pomposity, and admired those who spoke out in defiance of a tide of popular prejudice. His greatest hero was not a poet, soldier or politician. It was an ordinary Launceston working man. Russell Uren, who in the 1930s was virtually ostracised in his home town because of his left wing views.

The two met at Workers? Education Association evening lectures. Charles said: ?The WEA was a real saviour for me. I loved it. I met all these people who were interested in ideas and I realised you could educate yourself.?

Charles left school at 15 and started work as an office book-keeper, a job he loathed: ?It was terribly boring. Excruciating. I was a deadly employee. Awful. I?d never employ myself,? he told me.

But it was the second world war and life in the Royal Navy that fuelled his writing. The Chiefs and Petty Officers were, he said, his ?Eton, Harrow, Oxford and Cambridge?.

Like many of his generation, survival in the war meant the rest of your life was a bonus. But with it came the guilt of being alive when so many friends had died.

He returned home to teach in a town primary school. For six years he nursed his mother following a stroke. Broken by her death, he thought his life was over, but retirement from teaching gave him new breath. He travelled the world, ?reading all over the place,? he said.

Charles took the tales of his childhood, the folklore of the town, rescued them and created a wealth of lyrical poetry. To find your way around Launceston, don?t bother with a town guide. Take Charles Causley?s poetry. It is all there: Mary Magdalene lying on the church wall; the Round House; Eagle One and Eagle Two; the Zig-Zag footpath.

Much of his work expressed sympathy with the poor, innocent child. One of his most famous poems Timothy Winters is, like many, charged by images of warfare: Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:

A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.

Such poems came out of Charles? understanding of poverty before the welfare state, of the fear of the workhouse when a breadwinner died, as in Richard Bartlett, a poem about his maternal grandfather, killed while working in a Launceston quarry:

. . . the family nudged nearer

The pit where the Workhouse was, and a leper?s life

On the Parish.

Writing a poem was slow work, he said.

?I like to give myself about a month to write one poem. It?s like acrobatics, you have to make it look . . . you know.

?When I finish a poem it?s as good as I can make it at that time. I have only once rewritten a poem.?

One evening, in the study of his cosy cottage in Launceston, he left the room to make some tea. I glanced at the paintings on the wall, then my eyes settled on a fountain pen and a sheet of paper on his writing desk. It was a poem, written in that beautiful handwriting of his. In several places a word was crossed through and another inserted above it. It was like witnessing a diamond being cut.

In conversation, he had the gift of being able to find the precise words, the wry comparison, to describe an occasion.

He once reluctantly accepted an invitation to dine at the home of a self-important worthy who dealt in antiques. ?What was it like?? I asked him.

?It was,? he said, ?like sitting in the Victoria and Albert Museum ? when all the best stuff has been removed.?

I last saw him some eight weeks ago in his room at a Launceston nursing home where he spent the last years of his life. He walked with the aid of a frame and the guiding hand of a care assistant. He grew increasingly frail, but his mind stayed sharp and sure.

His work brought him many awards, including the Queen?s Gold Medal for Poetry. In 1986 he was appointed CBE.

Some have said he should have been made Poet Laureate after the death of John Betjeman. Charles would have been delighted by the honour, but I believe he was quietly relieved that he was spared the public scrutiny. He had many friends, but was an intensely private man.

The post of laureate went to Ted Hughes, Charles? friend of more than 30 years. Hughes? death four years ago shook Charles. ?He was like a brother to me,? he said.

Charles believed passionately in individual freedom, that nobody had the right to tell others how to conduct their lives. He detested being patronised and would react sharply to it. He was kind, courteous, encouraging, and, most importantly of all, would go to the stake rather than betray a confidence.

Our world is richer for his poetry. My life is richer for his friendship.

Every time I wrote newspaper articles about Charles? work, without fail, he would send a card, thanking me.

I had not thought that one day I would write about him. And no card would come.