Friday, 13 January 2006
Dappled dusty rays dance
On well-worn smoke-laden upholstery.
I lean back in the unforgiving oak chair,
a battered copy of Jane Eyre in hand,
overwhelmed by the passionate, witty exchanges
between her and the treacherous Rochester.
Flipping pages, madly scribbling notes,
I begin, in my warm solitude,
to hear the laughter of patrons,
their loud voices competing for the floor,
the publican drawing rounds
of foam-headed dark ale.
here at the Black Bull,
his own fatherâ€™s church
looming powerfully beside,
Did he feel it?
No, he felt only the drink,
I think to myself,
as I watch the steam from my cup
of richly-brewed coffee, two parts milk,
coil into the hazy view,
today and yesterday
melting into that brief moment
of sun on tired chintz-covered benches.
I walk decidedly
on the cobblestone path,
my bag slung loosely over my shoulder.
I hear a distant echo,
horsesâ€™ shod hooves
The fog is held captive, a heavy
damp shroud possessed by the moors.
I perceive in the wandering light
a mossy gravestone, fungus-inhabited lettersâ€”
H E A T H C L I F F, it says,
and for a suspended interval,
it is wholly believable
that he should
occupy this ground.
I am stone still,
caught between the pages,
party to his desperate clawing at
his meeting death without resignation,
joining her at last.
The loud voices at the Black Bull
fill my head;
Branwell returns to the frame.
The weak soul
bound to the
of the otherâ€”
and I mourn
Carolyne Van Der Meer
(Pictured above in Haworth at the BrontÃ« Society Education Conference in September 2004)
Posted by Richard Wilcocks at 1:19 pm