ON THE MOORS, The Brontës
Some shun it here–
call it tree-starved, stunted,
drizzled in mist.
In untrammeled air, curlews cry.
Over bilberry, gorse,
spikes of purple heather,
the earth is a bog that erupted one day–
under blackened skies, peat and mud flowed for miles,
swept away bridges, suffocated fish.
(Papa preached that God unsheathed
his sword, brandished it over our heads.
Be thankful we are spared, he cried.)
Indeed, this ground is a living being
that breathes through our soles,
an infinite undone page,
the wind the voice that dictates.
EMILY DICKINSON AND EMILY BRONTË
Weren’t we the consummate
the Nobodies behind
Ellis Bell, anonymous.
In our kitchens, at our desks,
did you see souls at white heat–no tremblers
in the world’s storm-troubled spheres,
a constancy of Hosts above us.
We Lit the Lamps–ourselves
(as it should be)
in Eternity now.
Copyright Andrea Potos © 2012