Last night I dreamt I was Emily Bronte

after Emma Conally-Barklem

I  was hanging linen on the line, washed the old fashioned way. I had

walked up a steep hill and could survey the valley unchanged for

generations. The wind was in a rage, expressed what I could not. Lines

everywhere you can’t see, can’t cross.

There are only a few hours left of this dream. Pinch a loaf from the

bakery, kick a rock creating an avalanche down the hill. Learn the

names of flowers – wild angelica, flowering rush. Tame a hawk and call him

Nero. You might not get another chance Emily Bronte.