famous poet

LETTER FROM HAWORTH – Barry Tebb

Poems do not always satisfy the soul; the feel of cobbles underfoot is at this moment more

Than all of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the unending vistas

Of the moor, an infinity of purity that excels even Mallarmй.

I sit on the cracked steps to the church, sipping tea

With my eye on the Black Bull where Bramwell worshipped

Until a mobile phone playing ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’

It disturbs my reverie, and I notice the

Big Issue seller

Can find no takers among the

Ernest camera-ready Japanese

And mid-life couple shuffling into tea rooms.

“We are here to please”

I long for a woman’s enduring love.

Here is God’s glory hole,

O, women, why are you all so angry?