Sexual Healing and a Pint of Charlotte
Haworth Notes
I’m here, in a dream.
They have Brontë ales at the inn; drink a pint of Charlotte to conjure a strong Irish accent, try Emily for heretic tendencies, or Anne for that strong baby-sister energy.
I find the words; Poke Bonnet written in my notebook and end up down a rabbit hole of headwear.
They’re playing Sexual Healing at the haunted 17th century inn. It feels odd. People carry on discussing Wuthering Heights regardless. There used to be a makeshift mortuary in the cellar…‘Let’s make love tonight’
There is a defibrillator at the top and bottom of the high street - presumably because it is heart-stoppingly pretty.
A man in the pub tells me he grew up in a nearby town and fell in love with Haworth some forty odd years ago whilst on a school trip, after a game of rounders.
The sun is an egg yolk between buildings at the end of the street.
I write in my book; cobbles/frills/wet hem.
At dinner I watch two women. One has green heels and the other, peach hair. They lean towards each other, a candle separates them. They nibble their fingers.
Later at the guesthouse, I think about Branwell Brontë and how he stood up to die on his feet.
(Here come) The bikers
Slow walking on Shirley Street
Home, sweet home
Brontë muses conjuring in the window seat
Punk girls dine alone
Townie writer girl meets Brontë Parsonage garden
Cavalcade of liquorice
Night sky, bluer than a doll’s eye
Where I met and followed a cat
Seance hands