#edward thomas

The simple lack of her is more to me than others’ presence.

-- Edward Thomas

"Thunderstorm" by the Polish artist Józef Chełmoński.

* * * *

“Things will happen that will trample and pierce, but I shall go on, something that is here and there like the wind, something unconquerable, something not to be separated from the dark earth and the light sky, a strong citizen of infinity and eternity.”

The Talyllyn Railway running shed. Detail shots of the locomotives.

During my visit, our guides took us off of the train and into the running shed for a short walkthrough tour. By this time, Talyllyn had been put away. Edward Thomas hadn't run that day, and so stood cold but magnificent, wearing works grey, at the back. In the adjoining shed, Sir Haydn had just returned from her visit to the Corris, a visit which saw the Corris' own No. 3 make its way to the Talyllyn for a while.

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done

These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough

Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:

Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most:

As well as any bloom upon a flower

I like the dust on the nettles, never lost

Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

by Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

After the storm had passed, the sky cleared for a while, so that at times it was even possible to see some welcome patches of blue. But massive clouds were still racing in from the Atlantic on a strong breeze, so that although the low January sunshine was pleasantly bright at times, it was soon obliterated by a fresh wave of grey, sometimes accompanied by a battering shower of hail, for the temperature had dropped back down again, and there was fresh snow on the hills.

Algy was feeling rather weary, for he had discovered that big storms were tiring and stressful, even for fluffy birds, so when the sun burst through and it looked as though it might last for longer than a few minutes, he flopped down on his assistants' tree seat and indulged in a wee bit of winter sunbathing – or, to be more accurate, light-bathing – trusting his fluffy feathers to keep him warm in the icy air.

He was suprised to see that although it certainly didn't feel like spring, the spring bulbs were far more advanced than usual for this time of year, with some of the daffodils which normally didn't flower until early March showing coloured buds already. And the sunlight, although still low enough to cast long, deep shadows, was a great deal brighter than it had been, which helped to create the illusion that spring had arrived well before its time.

As he rested comfortably in the sunshine, Algy thought of all his friends in the snow-bound areas of the northern hemisphere, for whom spring was still nothing but a chimera, and he hoped that a thaw would reach them soon. He wondered whether the birds in those areas could perhaps already detect what his human friends could not, for it was certain that no matter how cold it was at present, winter would inevitably pass, and spring would come again:

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass.