Sunday, November 10, 2013


HEATHER, I've seen it bloom. Pick it. You can't keep it. The blossoms fall. Transplant it and it dies. Leave it to its windswept peat-bog and it flourishes. HEATHCLIFF- moorland native.

Still yet, the lark, in moorland skies
Skims the heather and lonely, cries
To itself. The song it sings
Of love and loss and sundry things

I feel that Emily Bronte should have been buried in the earth where heather blows in the wind and where the clouds race across the sky on the moors. Under the church floor, weighed down by cement, is not , in my mind, a proper place for such an earth loving spirit as Emily.

The Hill.....

There was a hill behind our house, not to wide and not too tall. A foot-path ran round the hill, diverging leftward to a tiny fir grove. Here in this fragrant green bower I idled away many summer days. The woodsy shelter gentled the ocean breeze and the sun, playing hide'n'seek with white fluffy clouds, warmed my face and arms.The fat headed grasses glowed as they whispered and bowed. Birds called out to each other...keep away. Berries blushed blue in the mosses while I watched. I was never lonely . In that sweet solitude I dreamed dreams.



The top of the hill was for loneliness. The top of the hill , in the full force of the biting ocean winds, was where I took heartbreak and agony. With my arms wrapped tightly round the fat warm body of my old dog, with my fingers clenched in and my face buried in his hair, I cried in unutterable pain; the pain that strangles the voice and stabs the throat. Under that grey scudding sky, with great fog banks mounting the bay and with the lament of the fog horn sounding eternal sorrow, I mourned to my dog. No one heard. No one came. I cried until I saw it was no use. I swallowed the sword and walked on.



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a lone soul, wild and free