L - An Adlestrop Lad.

An Adlestrop Lad

By Oliver Murray.

Hot afternoon, late June, a blackbird's song,
sun's heat, a molten shimmering of air.
Farther off and mistier, the throats of sweeter birds
Poured honey on our love, as I there

embraced among the haycocks dry
my Prue in willow-herb and meadowsweet and grass
We never thought the express would stop at Adlestrop
just shriek its casual whistle, thunder past.

But, drawn up unwonted, hissing steam, it panted over us.
No one left and no one came
on the bare platform ( or anywhere else).
and I know that Prue felt much the same.

The passengers had all of Oxfordshire
and Gloucestershire to gaze at through the glass,
me scrambling for my trousers
and modest Prudence hiding in the grass.