Lucy Durneen- New Poetry
Hill of Moses
That argument about the Brontës, I
am thinking of it again
- of Emily, I mean, the
unremarkable virgin -
I am thinking of her out of the blue,
climbing the Hill of Moses.
The Stockholm wind is like the wind
of Haworth moor,
a ravaging of snow-lit stone. I’m waiting
in front of Katarina,
the church burned twice, and cursed
(they say); I am dancing on its
bloody foundations, her
watchmakers and milk...