Poetry!.. You say you couldn't care.
Not for you this love affair with books.
The name of Brontë's wuthering thought the air
but you are not a visitor who looks
for hidden meaning laced into rhyme;
you seek out the antiquities in shops.
You say you haven't really got the time
to experience the wind howl round the tops'.
The driver said to meet at five o'clock;
the next stop visiting Aire River.
You slowly amble to the churchyard gate;
an apparition in the doorway makes you shiver.
A crinoline dress is swirling past your ear;
it rustles with the leaves, which almost talk.
You catch your breath and half begin to speak
then lengthen up the striding of your walk.
Glancing back, there's nothing to be seen.
What it was, you haven't got a notion.
Perhaps the thoughts were all within your mind?
Some say it could be poetry in motion.
Tina Watkin, of Denholme