Collecting Bins at Emily Bronte’s

                  Collecting the Bins at Emily Bronte’s


                   ‘What is the matter, my little man?’ I asked.

                   ‘There’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,’ he blubbered, ‘un’ I darnut pass ’em.'


                    Long after she’d gone, being reborn

                     on teapots and table mats - daguerrotyped,

imaged and impressed on Bronte soap,

Bronte fudge, Bronte tea-towels - so fixed forever,

she could stare the lengths of Howarth High Street,

I collected the bins at Emily Bronte’s house.

There were two, placed firmly round the back,

a battered pair besides the iron gate:

rusting, they leaned close together, one taller,

more dented than the other. But lifting the lids,

not once, a sprite of moor’s wind bristling my hair;

not once, a lapwing’s scream, lit nest of bones,

or lightning running like a man. The bins stood

by the Parsonage window, where I set them down

on their stains. But never once, through leaded panes,

a face blank as linen, moor-scapes of winter and wild,

or lost at the edge of the room, a slight girl,

hand on cheek, inclined to write on shadows.

🌷 (2)

◄ Lovers By the Ice-Age Tarn

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jennifer Malden

Fri 8th Dec 2017 14:20

Lovely - really spooky, sends a shiver down your spine. Almost believe in ghosts, coming from Scotland where every castle has at least one, considered at worst a nuisance or part of the family.

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