The peanut crunchers stood at Sylvia’s grave,
So to speak, Birthday Letters in their car,
Because, like Sylvia, we readers crave
A meeting with dead writers near and far.
She and Ted went to Haworth, up the moor,
Looking for Wuth’ring Heights, fantasising,
Just like us, in the Black Bull for a jar,
Book-buying, church and parsonage seeing,
But no Brontë saw us (extinct being).
In Hebden Bridge, where we shopped, I was brave
Upon seeing that great record shop door
Locked shut on Mondays, but enjoyed eating
Once more at the Inn on the Bridge, cool cave,
Respite from sun, discussing literature.
Mon 10 Sep 2007
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