Remains of Elmet

Everything became very quiet.

The hills were commandeered For gravemounds.

The towns and villages were sacked.

Everything fell wetly to bits …

Emily Brontë

The wind on Crow Hill was her darling. His fierce, high tale in her ear was her secret. But his kiss was fatal.

Through her dark Paradise ran The stream she loved too well That bit her breast.

The shaggy sodden king of that kingdom Followed through the wall And lay on her love-sick bed. The curlew trod in her womb.

Her death is a baby-cry on the moor

The stone swelled under her heart.