Edward Thomas
As the team’s head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed the angle of the fallow, and
Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square
Of charlock. Every time the horses turned
Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned
Upon the handles to say or ask a word,
About the weather, next about the war.
Scraping the share he faced towards the wood,
And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed
Once more.
The blizzard felled the elm whose crest
I sat in, by a woodpecker’s round hole,
The ploughman said. ‘When will they take it away?’
‘When the war’s over.’ So the talk began—
One minute and an interval of ten,
A minute more and the same interval.
‘Have you been out?’ ‘No.’ ‘And don’t want to, perhaps?’
‘If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm. I shouldn’t want to lose
A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,
I should want nothing more . . . Have many gone
From here?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Many lost?’ ‘Yes, a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him. It was back in March,
The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if
He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.’
‘And I should not have sat here. Everything
Would have been different. For it would have been
Another world.’ ‘Ay, and a better, though
If we could see all all might seem good.’ Then
The lovers came out of the wood again:
The horses started and for the last time
I watched the clods crumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem balances quiet rural life with the far-reaching shadow of war, creating a layered meditation on time, loss, and connection. It’s set in a pastoral scene—fields, horses, and a fallen elm—but war steadily intrudes, even in casual conversation. The contrast between the everyday labor of the ploughman and the existential weight of war runs through the entire piece.
The opening lines situate us in a landscape where human actions—like the lovers disappearing into the wood—blend seamlessly into the natural rhythm of ploughing and growth. The fallen elm becomes a symbol of the disruption caused by the war, not only because it remains unmoved due to a lack of workers but also because it directly ties the narrator and the ploughman to reflections on fate. The tree’s uprooting by a blizzard mirrors the human upheaval brought about by the war.
The dialogue between the narrator and the ploughman feels striking in its simplicity and honesty. The ploughman speaks plainly about loss and his ambivalence toward going to war. His resignation—“If I should lose my head, why, so, I should want nothing more”—is chilling in its matter-of-fact tone. This reflects a pervasive fatigue, a sense that the world’s changes, both grand and small, are beyond individual control.
The war is both distant and immediate. It’s happening elsewhere, yet it dictates the rhythm of life in the fields, reducing the number of farmhands and leaving the elm where it fell. The dialogue reveals how deeply war intertwines with everyday existence, shaping even the most mundane aspects of life.
The closing image of the lovers reemerging from the wood and the ploughshare turning over clods of earth suggests a continuation of life despite everything. Yet, there’s no overt optimism—just a sense of cycles carrying on. The narrator’s remark that “everything would have been different” had the fallen elm been removed is a subtle acknowledgment of the countless small ways lives are shaped and altered by external forces.
This poem captures the tension between permanence and impermanence, nature and war, and personal and collective experience. It’s not dramatic or sentimental, but its power lies in the quiet, cumulative weight of its details and dialogue. The ploughman’s labor and the narrator’s reflection become a microcosm of a world trying to endure under the strain of conflict.