We crawled in station looking for a black bird
That cried in mist through history’s stalactite
To the bleakest and oldest birds of prehistory,
Their bones interred as pure stalactite flowers.
A black bird did swing sweet by cave ancestors
But bats inside were more forthright on wings.
They flapped in the enormous silence of caves,
A far cry from the bird cousins of Oxfordshire.
(The lonely Borra caves railway station nestled in the Eastern hills reminded me of the Adlestrop railway station in a poem by that name by Edward Thomas)