An Adelstrop moment

Adelstrop

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.  Some one 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 around him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

EDWARD THOMAS 1878-1917

I've always loved this poem.  I can remember train journeys by steam train when I was a small child -the whoosh and huff of the engine, the steam billowing out behind, and the agony of getting a smut in your eye. One particular trip we did in summer always involved a mysterious stop at a country station for what seemed like no particular reason at all. 
It was in my mind this morning when I opened the bedroom window  and looked across the Severn Vale to the Cotswolds bathed in early morning sunshine.  I don't think the bird I heard singing was a blackbird - more likely a chaffinch, but suddenly birds were singing away into the distance.  I tried to catch the sound and sight on my camera, but sadly it won't upload, so you'll have to imagine that one magical sound and others joining in across the wide landscape, and not only no planes but not even the sound of a car to bring in the 21st century.
We're right in the area beloved of the Dymock poets - Dymock itself is only about 12 miles away.  Its other, more recent claim to fame is as the home of Stinking Bishop cheese, made by Charles Martell with milk from the rare Gloucester cattle which he and other local enthusiasts have revived from near extinction in the early 1970's, though they are still 'at risk'.  Adelstrop is further away, near Stroud. Thomas was travelling from Oxford to Worcester, it was 1914 just before the outbreak of World War One, he never visited Adelstrop again. He died in France in April, 1917.  Adelstrop station was closed in 1966 (as, sadly were many others nationwide).  The bench and the sign are all that remains - a plaque on the bench quotes the poem.

Trains still make mysterious unfathomable stops in quiet abandoned looking stations, despite all Dr Beeching's efforts some still exist, and although we no longer have the hiss of steam, we still have blackbirds and willow-herbs and golden moments - and long may they continue.