moors of love

Like a ghost from jane eyre's love,
the moors of iceland become the moors of england
where love tortures itself into endless circles,
and paths lead to passion's embrace.
Long held in the night,
the wind carries a candle
while ghosts turn the pages from one time to another;
a glance from a love lost in thought.
A flame ignites itself in a broken window.
Lace lies strewn in a solemn gesture across the ancient moors.
My locket lies in the hollow behind the whisper of your voice;
the light glancing off of your smile
caught forever in a moment between the pages of my heart.
Doors inside your words ignite openings
while curtains billow in their whiteness against victorian windowframes.
Carvings against the ceiling of ancient yew
are caught in rays of a golden setting sun
igniting the moors with green turning to lavender memories.
The wind catches the light in your hair
as you stand for a moment in the doorway.
In a stillness,
I catch my breath and hear the sound of your thought as a piece of music
that composes itself in the soul of the wind.
My eyes turn to the moors of england that turn into the moors of iceland...
that turn into a love
that finds the wind buried forever in the heart of a locket.