The Grave of Anne Bronte.

They have given Anne a new memorial.
The epitaph I could read when a child
Is now crumbling back to sand,
Just like the nearby castle
And the very cliff it rests its weight upon.
The lead words chipped and broken,
Pulled away by the wind and rain
That slants across the steep brow of this hill
Like a cold veil between now and the eternal,
Between today and yesterday,
And the ghostly shadow that we name "Tomorrow".

The new memorial is a plain and simple stone
Set in concrete atop the little mound
That hides mortality from the always grieving,
From the eyes of pilgrims seeking solace,
From the boot prints of the casual tourists.
Rubbed out by the weather, the new words will also
                                                                      vanish,
Though probably not as quickly as the original.
Words cut into stone rarely last as long
As printers ink impressed upon cheap paper.

Anne was the Bronte we often underrate,
Although she was the fiercest of the clan,
Speaking truth with words that really hurt
Folk who hate it when the truth is spoken.
Her honesty has brought me to this grave yard
To sit and mourn her youth, but also to imagine
That I can be as honest as she was,
And not to hold my tongue when times get tough.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. -28th. 2017.
Scarborough.