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...


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