Emily Bronte Done In Charcoal, No Hint Of Rose

though she had seen the moon afire

who would she tell?

or wandered with the ghosts at will

her treasure was deep silence

deeper than all snows and then to write

in snow on snow while it is still stinging, flying

oh seamlessly

 the suddenly too vivid faces at the windowsill

or seen in storm's laments

on the high high hills

no home in view.

how endless is her solitude

and yet, how free

to worship never standing still

and never,

among the multitudes at all.

mary angela douglas 14 november 2014