those dots they call diaeresis I in my haste called umlauts
no spectre of Brontë shall remain
In London’s quiet Poets’ Corner stands,
A stone of memories, carved by gentle hands.
Eighty-five years since its first debut,
Yet names were incomplete, a hidden rue.
Amidst the shadows of a war-torn night,
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lost their light,
The dots above their names—a simple grace—
Forgotten in the haste, in that troubled space.
Sharon Wright, with keen and watchful eye,
Spotted the error, wondered why.
“Have they not earned this small tribute,
To mark their legacy, resolute?”
With a stonemason’s tap, the dots took form,
A celebration of sisters, in art reborn.
Painted with care, the correction shines,
Echoing the strength of their woven lines.
From Bradford’s heart, where their stories bloom,
Wright sought to banish the lingering gloom.
For every tale of love, loss, and strife,
Deserves to be honoured, enriched with life.
Now near Dickens and Austen, their names align,
In the warmth of remembrance, their spirits entwine.
Eighty-five years later, at last they belong,
A tribute to brilliance, a sweet, timeless song.
Poetry by arquious
Read 52 times
Written on 2024-10-12 at 02:33
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