Starts the yearn for Dickens
His damp London, his dark London.
For him in all his secretness
Walking abroad, at night, alone.
For Dracula. His remoteness,
His seductiveness. And the structure
Of love through letters
Under the threat of an invading future.
For Radcliffe her castles and villains.
Her faith in sumptuous conciliations
Against the threat of invasive factions.
Her ceaseless belief that goodness shuns.
For Byron. His deliciousness.
His evenings on the candle's whim, and then.
His it never being Sunday; his to bless
The flicker that's women, men.
For Frost his leaves. His soul inviting soil
To find itself in him. His with the night
Such that it withs in him. His apple smell.
His at the window once a fire's right.
For Bronte, Charlotte. Her open heart
For all its worth. That it might pine
Deep in one's own. That it might start
A worthness revolution, right, divine.
For darkness as it is, a natural joy.
A bent in all, some push to where there's not
An easy thing to be, or thing to say.
A push to where's the deepness in the gut.
For this writer. His evening walks to come.
His seeing October creep up on the the sky,
A sky that for a summer held a sun,
A sun that now with melancholy says goodbye.