of Edward Thomas who died on this day, 1917
Sitting in the Adlestrop bus shelter
the sky is cloudless, the sun warm.
It could almost be late June
but for the trees just coming into green,
white blossom falling in the breeze
that raises ghosts of dust from the road.
There are cars parked along grassy verges
and wordless birds clamour from hidden places.
Somewhere a horse signals its whinny.
A clouded yellow butterfly tints the air.
Fourteen Harleys rumble through the village;
bikers and hikers going on their ways.
The train, even on this Sunday, toots
once in the distance, nowhere near this sign –
the sign you noticed, noted down, caught.
And not a moment’s silence is observed
by nature, the magnolia’s heavy petals
dropping on the shining road.
from #NaPoWriMo @poetryschool Prompt 9