The book on the top shelf

It was on the top shelf, waiting there,

And I had to stretch to reach it down.

Blowing off the dust I fanned the pages open

To waft fresh air and wake

The people waiting there

So patiently.

They had not moved for 50 years

For I had read the book at school.

My pencilled notes still crawled
Up and down the margins,

And many words were underlined.

‘Let sleeping dogs lie’ they say,

But Pilot woke as I rustled the pages.

Then Mrs Fairfax, blinking a little,

Took up her knitting needles,

Lying on her lap for years

And she dropped not a stitch.

The great black horse fell once more

On the ice across Hay Lane,

And Pilot once more ran up to Jane,

And she helped the man to mount again.

Once more they talked in the orchard

As darkness fell quietly on the old house.

And once again she waited for him beyond the gates

As he rode home late one night.

And yet again the clear, cold voice

Stopped the wedding

That was so nearly happy.

Once more Thornfield fell in flames

Like Manderley would later fall.

Poem every Monday