Wuthering Away

  She waits for him
in the midst of fallen amber leaves
like a black crow stalking the frosty air.
He arrives as usual,
downcast eyes and angry feet
devour the bitter grass.
But in his memory
they still dance among the willows of the grange
and run upon the hills that roll
into an endless English countryside.
Her cold ghost embraces him as he yearns
for the warmth of her eyes.
In the meadow past the heights
he whispers her name into the empty air
only to hear the wail of the wind
echoing the same voice that has haunted him
and called him to her grave
20 years since.

  By Marisa Torrieri