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