LETTER FROM HAWORTH by 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’
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 the enduring love of a woman
Here is God’s glory-hole,
O, women, why are you all so angry?