Bicentennial Brontës

Defying expectation

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

Resounding strong

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.


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