Thursday 19 October 2017

EMILY BRONTË'S ON MY DOORSTEP



Emily Brontë’s on my doorstep.
Under her hem I can see her feet.
She has no shoes on.

I know she will have avoided
Stepping in toadstools, hedgehog
Excreta, worm casts,

Flattened her soles into moss,
Cold clover, mist of dew,
Maybe thorns.

I remember referring to my upland home
As wuthering. Has she come
To snort derision?

She sifts through my heart,
Eyes a forgotten colour, all reproach,
Lofty, lyric,

A shadow on the shelf,
She enters, dissolving in dimity,
Ferocious flare from heath to hearth.

Tapping keys, watching words cascade
I feel her at my back,
Refusing to relent, melt, yield, unbend.


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