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(1961)

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Inspiration from Bronte Country

Stark white wind-farms now whirl, wuthering wild atop High Haworth moor
On fresh snowfall softly covering, like lambswool, the grassy floor
But as bland blades turn there, hovering thoughts spin fast around my brain:
If it is now worthwhile bothering writing verse which rings so vain.

Are those metal monsters withering so all inspiration dies?
For as I sit here all dithering yet new notions stir and rise:
Would they stop the Brontes gathering prose to spill forth from their pen,
If they still lived now, endeavouring brand new tales to tell as then?

For their novels yet are weathering harsh assaults from modern times
And still millions read them, marvelling at their tight, well-crafted lines.
So revived, I’ll plough on, severing cramping cords that crowd my head
And lend words that sit there, feathering, new-fledged nestlings, wings to spread.

Thus encouraged, pens are quivering poised above the pristine page
To begin their wordsmiths’ smothering of this sheet with verbiage
And my recollections furthering of the Bronte waterfall
As it tumbles there eliciting sisters’ legacy’s recall.

For the moorland’s misty heathering though besmirched by windmills grim
Still invoke desire, untethering inhibitions from within
To begin this sumptuous revelling with descriptive words in play
As it filled the Brontes, blathering as I forge my fulsome way.

So when I return and, southering, tread prosaic London’s street,
I hope memories still last lingering of green Haworth’s hillsides steep
So that I may ease my suffering, homesick thoughts of Yorkshire Dales
And face life anew, recovering energy to pen fresh tales.

Submitted: Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Edited: Tuesday, February 03, 2009


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