Mist Of Wuthering Heights

Mist Of Wuthering Heights
© Surazeus
2017 03 26

Alone in the cemetery at night,
she stares at shadows dancing in the mist
and tries to forget everything she saw
watching the evening television news.

The swift flow of historical events
seems to be spinning far out of control
like a thousand cars racing down the road
too fast around a curve in pouring rain.

The president is acting like a child
while trying to reduce us all to wage slaves
by crushing education and health care,
and wants to force us all to attend church.

I want to clear the clutter from my mind
and remember the things that I love most,
cooking good food and snapping photographs
of natural landscapes that compose our world.

Raising her eye phone with glowing blue screen,
she frames the scene of oak trees in gray mist,
laced black against the silver moon-lit clouds
as a raven glides on black angel wings.

The moon gleaming silver through tangled limbs
and glowing in dew that sparkles on grass
dissolves the modern world so now I feel
I am living in mist of Wuthering Heights.

I wish I could stay forever in peace
in this eerie world of mist on wild moors
and walk alone where restless sea waves roar
with ghosts of Bronte sisters at my side.

Writing a poem, I walk with my friend Death,
she posts photo of herself with the moon
on Face Book, which hundreds of people like,
then grins as she stares at rain-worn tombstones.

No matter where I go in this huge world
that teems with seven billion nameless souls,
I am never alone for shining words
of their thoughts glow on screen of my eye phone.

Sensing someone beside her in moonlight,
she turns to accept offered book of dreams
but their spirit vanishes from her eyes,
and she reaches her hand toward dreaming tree.