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Haworth’s hill is hard to climb
But with tenacity and time,
     You’ll reach, upon that Pennine hill,
     A cemetery with daffodils.

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High on the hill, as you’ll also see,
Is a parsonage near a cemetery.
   This is a home of much acclaim
    Where lived a family of fame.

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Writers of great works lived here
And in the parsonage, quite clear,
    They left their study tidy, clean -
     Quite unlike my poetic scene.

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At night, on Haworth’s cobbled street,
In darkened shadows, you may meet
    Three sisters looking sadly stressed,
    In 19th century costume dressed.

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The Brontes, who had literary goals,
Now find no rest for their dear souls
     And, fleeing those, from far and wide,
      Seek sanctuary in which to hide.

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You writers, who lay claim to fame,
Make sure that things won’t be the same -
     And please check well before you die
    That there’s good parking quite nearby.

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Copyright on my poems 

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