For Stella


He wonders where she’s gone,

the woman who would sit 

on this bench

on the Heath

every day

singing softly 

sometimes

singing

sadly

solitary.


She would stretch out her arms 

across the back of the bench

so that she filled it

leaving no space

for anyone else

no space for him

passing by

so sad

so lost

so full

of loss.

He named her Stella.


And now

he sits there

remembering

her notes 

in his ears,

her face

in his head

wondering 

where she is

if she remembers

him

passing by.


He sits there

solitary

sipping

his tea

wondering

how 

not to forget

his Stella.


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