the rugged beauty of brooding moorland.
But what else did I expect?
Thirty years between myself and the summit
has intensified obsession, yet eroded boundary walls
and doubled the height of the tree
that now casts a much broader shadow
over imagination's idyll. House walls are crumbling away.
It's no longer as the Earnshaws knew it,
is even more inimical now. The old farmhouse
in which we once took refuge has fallen victim
to vandals' idle hands
and the Elements' tumultuous battering.
The cries of skylarks seem fainter
than I remember, like an old recording
time-worn and gradually fading into silence.
Buzzards circle prey beneath the summer sky,
and isolation closes in.
Unless a dedicated Bronte fanatic,
you would never venture this far into wilderness
in search of the myth,
nor curse Emily for your aching legs
and the sombre emptiness that envelopes you
with a churlish welcome
that needs no spoken word or printed page
but, instead, appears to issue
straight from Heathcliff's tormented Soul...
I am heading out into the Cornish wilderness tomorrow, so will be taking a few weeks off (as I know from experience that internet connection there is patchy at best)!
So, have a great time until I "see" you all again...:))