A Poem on the Underground

I was in London yesterday which reminded me that after my last trip, in early November, I meant to write a post. Standing in a cramped, noisy and hot tube train I was captivated, and then shocked, by one of Transport for London’s brilliant ‘Poems on the Underground’. I had intended to write more about this, but I think it would be superfluous. The poem speaks for itself.

Lost in France, by Ernest Rhys.

He had the ploughman’s strength
in the grasp of his hand;
he could see a crow
three miles away,
and the trout beneath the stone.
He could hear the green oats growing,
and the south-west wind making rain.
He could hear the wheel upon the hill
when it left the level road.
He could make a gate, and dig a pit,
and plough as straight as stone can fall.
And he is dead.

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