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Top Withens, in Snow
A poetic reflection on moorland ghosts, winter silence, and the echoes of Wuthering Heights
Upon the moor where silence lies,
Beneath the pale and steely skies,
There stands a house, or what remains—
Bare stone, cold ash, and weathered chains.
A ruin now, its roof long gone,
Yet still it holds the ancient song
Of wind and grief and stories passed,
Of ghosts too wild, too fierce to last.
Top Withens, lone upon the height,
Blanketed soft in winter white,
Looks out across the frozen moor,
Where shadows drift and spirits soar.
Its walls, though broken, breathe and hum
With echoes of what once would come—
The footfall of the Earnshaw kin,
The storm that shook the world within.
Though Emily, with pen in hand,
Wrote not this house into the land
As faithful copy, brick for beam,
She built instead a fiercer dream.
Yet here, the likeness finds its mark—
The howling wind, the air so stark,
The sense that love and rage and pain
Still wander through the sleet and rain.
The novel, carved of northern stone,
Is not a tale of love alone,
But one of wrath and deep regret—
Of hearts that will not let forget.
Heathcliff, mad with passion’s fire,
Catherine, torn by her desire—
Their voices seem to ride the breeze
Among the frost and leafless trees.
And as you stand where snowflakes cling
To every wall and silent thing,
You feel the past beneath your feet—
The pulse of lives that will not sleep.
The moor, the ruin, and the sky
All hold that same unspoken cry
That Brontë poured in ink and rain:
A world of beauty, love, and pain.
No guide nor map can quite explain
What lingers in this house’s frame—
It is not merely stone and slate,
But something shaped by wrath and fate.
So let the wind through rafters roam,
Let nature take what once was home;
For in these drifts and crumbling eaves
Lie all the soul that art conceives.
And those who walk this path alone,
Past Stanbury fields and bracken blown,
May find, in snow and sky and stone,
That Wuthering Heights is not yet gone.