Three sisters told the world
of love and desperation;
completely broke the mold
They verbalised the heartbreak
that many dare not bear
conjured up these other worlds
Of Earnshaw, Grey and Eyre.
Blazing brave new routes unknown
As if to forge through wall of stone
Stiff and strict Victorian
Dictate that women know their turn.
But wild and old the Yorkshire moors
Their tales like fabric twist the earth
As if they’ve birthed this heather-rock
and landscape soaked up valley worth.
Not bound by net, ensnared with lace
Or tied to old convention’s pace
They were not birds, these Bronte souls
But women, fierce with language bold.
Two hundred years have ticked on past
But did they dream their words would last
The bitter wearing test of time
To capture hearts and knowledge bind.
The ink that ran from hard worn pen
Linking swirling blackened lines
Believed to be the work of men
And Published female authors blind.
These Bells still chime
As sure as Haworth’s built upon
Resolutely Yorkshire stone.
Rain lashed hills and heavy skies
Hold eternal charm to find
Tormented moments on the Heath
As lovers lost in self belief
Beauty of a moment brief
Crafted with perceptive skill;
gives the reader light relief,
loss and shock and deepest thrill.
Charlotte deft brings lost to tears
Depicting Jane’s true strength through fears
Ann built the world of Wildfell hall
Where Helen’s cost is man’s great fall
Emily so young and wild;
Spoke haunting hate and love defiled
And Branwell, brother of the three
Despaired of all he hoped to be.
Their little home, the parsonage
Sheltered each creative stage
Of books dreamed up, and characters
So full and formed upon the page.
Patrick loved and taught them well
Inspiring them to be themselves
These fiery daughters burned to be
Yorkshire’s boast; these women, three.