Adlestrop
Poetry in the fields
By Edward Thomas
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.
Sylvie Muir, this is such a lovely choice for “notes from the quiet wild.” The poem’s power is in how little happens outwardly: a train stops, no one arrives, no one leaves, and yet a whole landscape opens through heat, stillness, birdsong, and the name of a place. Sharing it here feels like an invitation to recover the kind of attention that can receive a passing minute as more than interruption. Grateful for the quiet pause this offered.
Wonderful selection, Adlestrop. Lovely to see the dogs run back and forth, the busy white moth, and to hear the crunch on the path. With the soft-spoken words.