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.