Rodley

As the train carves its way from Leeds to Haworth, I find my thoughts adrift in the rhythmic dance of literature and landscape. Today, I penned my second poem of this journey, a prose poem born from the whispers of the past that still linger in these moors. A solitary branch, tapping against the train window, became the unlikely muse for my verses. It stirred memories of the haunting scenes from Brontë's Wuthering Heights, where branches often played harbingers of omens and emotions. Compelled by this serendipitous connection, I removed my earphones, half-expecting to hear Cathy's ethereal voice calling through the winds. The poem flowed onto the page, a short prose piece intertwining the present with the echoes of a classic. It speaks of the timeless nature of storytelling, how a simple sound can transcend centuries and awaken the narratives that lie dormant in our souls.Read more