Frost and Edward Thomas Walking Near Ledington

The words were the least significant aspect
shouted or sung across an expanse
of hawthorn by way of greeting, a shared
acknowledgement rooted firmly in being
part of the changing season. It stuck
with one of the men who took to the lane
that evening, who talked the end of the summer
down. And was that defined in the voice
which spotted their passing there, and which called
a halt to their strolling rhythm? The friends
were always on walks that summer the war
was waiting on, making rich what was left
before they were both away, to the front
for one, or to holing up on his back-woods
farm for the other, drawing apart
like halves of a shell. Perhaps it was more
...