I climbed the jagged trellis at the back of the Windmill, Sat in the wheat room to read ‘Wuthering Heights’, I could hear the broken sails move from uneven weight, Tragically oscillating like a pendulum, And on the floor were tabards covered in the ashes of failure, Sweat dripped down my eyebrows slowing its fall, The heat was tangible even at dusk. Outside was the decrepit farmer, Bowing his head at the smell of his jaded harvest, Then hurling his scythe into a glistening carcase. I sat there watching death everywhere, Daytime, harvest, Heathcliff, spirit, But amidst this pain was something spectacular, The sun was bowing to the coronation of night, Absorbed upon candy coloured clouds, That moved like an inferno of chariots. The Farmer called his Sheepdog, And as he ran the corn folded, Jumping up playfully to his unaffectionate owner, But the Farmer beat him back down with a stick. Upon cascading pylons, The Blackbirds took nocturnal residence, As sparrows headed for the solace of sycamore, I thought to myself as I watched in the wheat room, Everything has an order, a balance, And then in the heart of these badlands, As day was given last rites, I drank a glass of Sauvignon, And opened Wuthering Heights.