The Parsonage, Haworth

In the earth, the earth thou shalt be laid,
A grey stone standing over thee;
Black mould beneath thee spread,
And black mould to cover thee.
Emily Brontë

Gravestones piled deep as fallen leaves,
trodden into the sodden ground;
last consumptive flush of Autumn
in the sycamores;
a kissing-gate swings disused
in the bitter wind.

Cries of crows, rattle of rain,
on the nursery windowpane;
insistent tick of the grandfather clock,
insistent tock of the stonemason's hammer,
stammered epitaphs
swathed in lichened green.

It is not the stone that eats their bodies,
but the black spring that runs through them
that feeds the dark sarcophagus.

A glimpse of sun
sudden as a blush suffusing soft cheeks;
pale blue eyes
calling through blonde coppices of hair
across the dimpled moors.

from Not Fade Away, Poems 1989-1994. Published by Bloodaxe Books 1994.