I didn’t realise

Stuart Beveridge

until you were gone, it’s not them
– tall and slender, with whispering
leaves – that catch my eye, but you.
Small by comparison, not cowering
in their shade as they tower, you shine.
Perfectly formed like… Grab a pencil.
Quickly, draw a tree. That’s the shape.
Chest height, radiant, assured.
Through the seasons you stood apart.

I never caught your name. In Winter,
those desperate for attention, swaying,
awaiting the new collection stood bare.
You held on to the stuff that makes you you.
Eschewing expectations,
twirling your old Autumnal coat.
I miss how the wind would make embers
of gold dance in the low February sun.
Out of time. Out of their league.

In daydreams you are stood on Crosby beach,
alongside the Gormleys, for all to see.


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