Do I remember Adlestrop?

The name? I actually don’t.

Because, in truth, I’ve never felt the urge,

And it’s quite likely that I won’t.


No steam hissed. No one cleared his throat.

Not even ghosts sailed by

An empty platform. All I saw

Was Adlestrop in my mind’s eye.


And as for willow-herb and grass

And meadowsweet. Hayfever wet

Would have left me less fine and fair,

I’d rather Adlestrop forget.


But, if a blackbird chose to sing,

I might consider stopping there.

To listen to the carolling

Of avian voices through the air.


© Ruth Twyman Lockyer April 2014

After ‘Adlestrop’ by Edward Thomas


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