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.

But upstairs

you have a view of the churchyard.


Soft light falls on the stones.

The trees stand tall

and nourished.



is the academic, Jack studies his Creative Writing MA in Kent, England. A previous fiction editor for The Menteur.

Contact him at jackcharter @ gmail . com (with no spaces)

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