The Grave of Anne Bronte, Scarborough. (New Poem).

They have given Anne a new memorial,
Those good folk who know the worth of books.
The lines I could decipher fifty years ago
Have crumbled into little heaps of sand
And gritty knots of lead. The few kind words
Broken down by decades of cold rain
Beating hard against the steep limestone escarpment
In salty gusts of wind.

The new memorial is a plain and simple plaque
That names her father but not the books she wrote,
And will perhaps survive this present century.
I sit beside the grave and try to come to terms
With how everything that makes a life worth living
Will eventually break apart and lose all meaning. -
A group of listless tourists, tied to an agenda,
Tick their check lists as they dawdle by.

Anne was the Bronte we often underrate,
Although she was the fiercest of her clan,
Speaking straight and strong with words that really troubled
Folk who hate it when the truth is spoken.
Her honesty has brought me to this hilltop graveyard
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. - July 11th. - 12th. 2018.
The first poem was written when I was very tired, now I think I have got closer to what I was trying to say.