It’s Charlotte Brontë’s birthday today but she’s not that great. Emily is the best Brontë sister.
Scuffed garden path,
leading to the graveyard
that spreads out below your window,
growing, like a black mould, day by day.
The carpenter and stonemason
grow quietly rich. The gravedigger
wakes each morning with an ache
that ripples across his knotted, broad back.
Though the tombstones cast
long shadows in the moonlight,
their letters must be read,
remembered in the day.
You’ve given every name
up to the stars. This way they
will live, if not forever,
more than two short months