Wuthering Heights by Rachel Burns



I thought my lover was like Heathcliff.
You had a temper, like my jealousy.
Sixteen, I’d sneak out in the middle of the night,
the owls hooting. Oh, it gets dark, it gets lonely
and return to the sound of the milk cart,
the milk bottles clinking on doorsteps,
starlings pecking at the silver tops.
The smell of morning dew on grass,
burning up in the early light.



About the Author:

Rachel Burns lives in Durham City, England. She has short stories published in Mslexia and Here Comes Everyone. Her poetry pamphlet ‘A Girl in a Blue Dress’ is available from Vane Women Press and The Poetry Book Society.
twitter @RachelLBurnsme