Sitting on the platform,

Waiting for my train to stop,

I thought of Adlestrop.

 

 

I yawned.

Someone lit a cigarette.

Noone complained

And no authority figure came.

 

 

I hated that cigarette

And prayed for a train.

Yes I remember Adlestrop

And the poet’s name.

 

—

 

The above poem came to me as I sat at Gipsy Hill railway station in south-east London. I doubt the gentleman who shared his cigarette with those on the platform (including me), has heard of Edward Thomas. I suspect he has no care for poetry. He certainly had no consideration for his fellow commuters.