Brontë's Muse

Thou doest mend mine heart 

and maketh thee
my wither'ed eye to see

that 

which thou deemst beautiful.

The Muse speaks:

Verily thine eye hath moistened anew 

that thou may see this realm through mine.

Thine eyes are pools dark and rendered in mystere,

As the heart of a womyn that lieth in the field

of an ocian's profound memory.

The Muse speaks, again:

Pools sweet and still, that tempt and offer succour.

Thirst'd we.
Thirst'd for the rain. 

Fallen over many winters of the breath. 

Into graves innumerable have I chased thee.

Thirst'd. Howl'd mad, and rent as fynery tramped a'hoof o'er mad horse.
Yet, thine eyes bid me drink, as mine do to thee.

“Remembre,” sayest they.

Please remembrest thou, me.



Written in Free-Flow Collaboration with Jennifer Margaret. 

27 and 28 November 2014.

Poet Speaks to J. M. J. P. : "Vous avez toujours été, et sera toujours, une muse pour moi."