For Emily Bronte Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

what mistral on a starless night
could conjure up the soul of you
or featured another fortune where
you and your sisters, your brother too
did not live in that tubercular house
that for certain was cold all through the Spring
as winter, wintry looks in bookish books
or your face pressed against the window
as if in a tempest, waiting to be let in again
we can imagine
or where the moors were as they were
conjuring the ghosts you were
despite all the tourists, you may linger
for those who go to Haworth as if
on pilgrammage.
should we bring mock orange blossoms
to the tomb of one so certain beyond all glooms
and alarms that God alone knows where you are
and who
we only know that you knew
forgetting all the facts that can be assembled
to explain not at all
your mystery of being in the world
and not of it, at all
remains unanswered though we call and call after you.

mary angela douglas 19 april 2023