Two Bronte Poems

Gothic

The moon is full and hung low in the sky.
Clouds drift, obscuring indifferently;
The tramp halts his moonlit march to observe
The scene from underneath the rotting tree—
A chestnut lately severed twain by some
Infernal mischief, perhaps a lightning
God who looked jealous on a happy scene.
The sky lightens by unnatural means
Orange heat and haze o’rpowers the tramp’s rest-place.
He gives a low chuckle and continues
On, not giving another backward glance
To the furious burning battlements.


Writing a Bronte Novel

Slowly I watch the fire burn low;
I light a candle to work by.
It’s very cold.

Tuesdays I go by bicycle
To the village five miles away.
Cycling, I plan—

My heroine, destitute, must
Make her way in a desp’rate world
She clings to hope,

Teaching fat boys who will not learn,
Wondering what is behind the
Door—it mutters.

Cycling back to the cottage—bread,
Cheese and milk intact—I see
The end end’s well.