The poet, Edward Thomas, had such a moment on a day in June, 1914. Adlestrop. Yes. I remember Adlestrop The name, because one afternoon Of heat, the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. But the world was not quiet then nor in a couple of months. His poem was written later and not published until some weeks after his death in action, in 1917.

Entire Thread

Topic	Date Posted	Posted By
Another thought for the day from B.Bilston, friend of the Forum.	09/01/26 14:12:00	Gerry Boyce
In which nothing much happens at all	09/01/26 16:15:00	David Ainsworth
Re:In which nothing much happens at all	09/01/26 16:21:00	John Hawkes

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