Saturday, 21 April 2012

Not Adlestrop.

This was brought about by Adlestrop, terrific poem by Edward Thomas.


Chapel En Le Frith.

On the way to Manchester.
A green sign.
Points.
Beckoning off the motorway.
Quaint sounding.
“One to visit!” I say.
But she never wants to detour.

I entertain myself with thoughts.
Of Rabbit
Gods.
Stretched high across a river.
A burning bridge.
I like to tarry, have fun.
She never wants to detour.




But you should go read Adlestrop, because Adlestrop it's too beautiful for words. Ignore that. I am too stupid for HTML. Here is Adlestrop, an object lesson in the difference between well meaning paddlers and actual poets. A moment frozen in words.

Adletrop

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment