The Wuthering

Torrents overflow a rocking sky. The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges dark are the claws of calamity. Small birds are blown sideways into scant bone-twisted trees, crooked branches spear each other. The land is harried by low and high fishtailing winds, the tufted earth blown beyond its roots. In the valley, village cats crouch; dogs snap the air their mouths as full as storm-drains. A banshee wails in our hearts while we listen to its silent screams. We are nothing but torrid echo’s run through by stampeding feather-light frights, guttering lights that seek a less bruising way to escape grip of this blustering day.