Two of my poems were performed in the open mic at the Poetry Party for the first Market Harborough Literary Festival, including this poem below inspired by a visit to Haworth where I attended a workshop. I am a great fan of Charlotte Bronte and the Moors. The poem was inspired by all of this, as well as my own life. This poem shows my style as a romantic gothic poet and my affinity with the writings of Charlotte Bronte.
by Katherine Howey
Two girls in polka dot dresses
sing Tulips from Amsterdam.
Thunder-blue clouds spill
spikes of rain on husked grass
waving like swaying seaweed.
Magnolias fall, bruised and wet.
A tree skeleton silhouetted
on the hilltop guards white buds
cradled in ferny fronds
ready to burst.
A blaze of yellow gorse,
hides the thorn which pricks the palm
draws a pearl of blood.
The mesmerising kestrel spirals
a shapeshifter, like all heart breakers,
swoops to make his kill.
Pheasants startle from the bracken.
Dry-stone walls encrusted with moss
fold into fields, tumble, defences breached.
Stagnant green pools crossed by bridges
inviting the adventure of freedom,
sunsets and stargazing.
White- chested weasels, slender and red
dart and pounce on their prey
across a streak of vibrant purple moorland
swept by summer winds.
Heathers burn to black stubble
preparing the land for the sleep of winter
and the sprouting tender stems of spring
shroud a promise,
the charge of pain and empty dreams.
An abandoned house
stands untiled, broken.
Glimpses of shivering meadow
and drizzle-soaked moors
flow through the rafters
going back to the land.
White flowers and green leaf-tips
of the winter Hellebore flourish
in the screeching, other-worldly wind.
Wild spirits I could not tame.
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