Moored

She was moored, tied up for good, bogged down, laid low, swamped, flattened, vegetable and mired. Cathy came to her funeral, and Heathcliff, the sisters Brontë, and even – it was said – the reclusive brothers Bell, who wrote. Thrushes sang to cover curates, who talked behind the church about their livings. Her admirers subscribed to lay a wreath upon her stone and, ’cross the centuries, acorns leapt up into oaks to view it. The scrollwork pleased them, as did the little stone leaf canopy that shielded her from the coral spread of liverworts and lichens. Her vessel rested in peace.

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