Heathcliff-like, you haunt my dreams,
central force of all my schemes.
Each decision carefully planned,
manoeuvred by your guiding hand.
Seeds you scattered long ago
only now begin to grow;
germinating slowly first,
unfolding with an unquenched thirst.
Across the barren wasteland calling;
as the burning sleet is falling;
Kathy walks with silent tread
through the lowlands of the dead
where ancient ghosts with hollow eyes
search the endless, sullen skies
and icy fingers pierce the skin,
trying to reach the soul within.
The air is filled with Ravens' cries
and jilted lovers mournful sighs.
Their bitterness will not be shaken,
nor their torment be forsaken.
Call your Kathy from her cold
and empty moorland road.
To Wuthering Heights, bring her back home,
no more these twisted paths to roam.
Out onto the frozen moor
where deep snow lies and north winds roar,
Heathcliff passes through the vale
with eyes so black and skin so pale;
as kathy waits beneath the Elm,
to welcome to her lonely realm
the one whose love she once rejected,
who now her heart shall keep protected.
When the day is quiet and still
look out towards the Heathered hill
just as the Sun is going down
and shadows swathe it like a gown.
Two lovers walking hand in hand
across the shimmering, whitened land.
Where they are going, no-one can know -
they leave no footprints in the snow.