Emily Bronte is nothing but dust
And memories of passion and unanswered lust.
She wrote but one story and made it to last,
Immortalised there as the lead of the cast.

She looks at the beauty of wildness of heart
And demands that we realise how each life is art
The boldly lit lovers leap from the page,
Em’s thoughts their background, her words their stage

Heathcliff and Kathy and Wuthering Heights,
Propelled by young Em’s determined insights.
She demands we face up to the black in a man
And still love his potential, like our Kathy can.

Emily Bronte died silent and strong,
Like Heathcliff she’d known that something was wrong.
Like Heathcliff she stormed at anything said,
And let herself slide 'till she ended up dead.

Emily Bronte now runs free on the moors,
Unleashed from all time and cultural laws.
Her passion’s unbridled.  She’s free to be strong.
Emily Bronte is where she truly belongs.