Emily Brontë – Jack Charter
two hundred years from now
careening down modern roads
towards your childhood home.
The churchyard is still there
and the gravestones
with their beautiful typescript.
But in your house
there are strangers
standing behind rope cordons
staring at the sofa:
the one you wrote on,
the one you died on.
You can no longer see the moors
from any window.
you have a view of the churchyard.
Soft light falls on the stones.
The trees stand tall
Contact him at jackcharter @ gmail . com (with no spaces)
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