Emily Brontë Poem by Patrick Rylands

Nothing might contain the night of life,
The fire of her wild soulscape
And the moors.
Wherein time is a thing to be lost or spent.
She haunted in life the sky
The loves of unwritten heroines
Set down clearly in blood.
She denounced the end as a frippery.
Instead the anguish of pain and pleasure
Was her escape.
Eyes burnt holes in time’s fabric.
Peerless she stood in the rain and wind,
Playing with passion’s possibilities.
Desire goes beyond tribute
And tribute beyond power.
There remains
Cold stone and the moors.
And words,
A shadow of what might have been.