Poem by Matt Abbott

Not every story has a beginning, a middle and an end.
Some have an ending in the middle.
And not every single action receives an explanation;
there is both beauty and agony in the riddle.

And even though, the show won’t go on,
the story continues to bloom:
in the bulbs on the tree,
the bhajis with the korma,
the silence in a sunlit room.

And that little tree might look delicate or timid.
Like it’d have an awkward conversation with the breeze.
But that tree has roots digging firmly in the earth:
stubborn in a hurricane,
and a warrior for anything with worth.

Tricks on friends and drinks in fields; face down in a quarry.
She’d have ketchup in The Ritz, without being slightly sorry.
Holding Lenni aloft as Simba.
Drinking Lambrini, and oozing class.
And errands on the paper round:
a thoughtful, caring lass.

All she ever wanted to do was help people,
in the same way that people had helped her.
And sometimes the days are like a glacier;
sometimes they spin by in a blur.

So, here’s a snippet of the story:
a lyrical statuette.
Like Mr Taylor said, we remember you, Quinn.
We all do,
and we’ll never forget.

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