In Memory of Steve Stone

Steve Stone (1954-2011)

On Saturday 23rd April, my colleague and lifelong family friend, Steve Stone, died on his 57th Birthday. As well as being a wonderful friend, an excellent fisherman and pretty handy on a pair of skis, Steve was also one of the finest teachers to have ever stood in a classroom. Around 700 people were in attendance at his memorial service last Friday, an astounding mix of family, fishing buddies, colleagues and pupils, from the past thirty five years, many having travelled across the globe to be there.

Because of the amount of requests that I have had from attendees, asking for a copy of my poem in memory of Steve, I thought that this might be an appropriate place where it is available to anybody who wants a copy. For anybody reading this who did not know Steve, I would suggest that the comments left on his Just Giving Page or his Facebook Group will give you an indication of why he was the sort of person that every teacher aspires to be.

At the Chalkface

‘Where cliffs are of resistant rock, wave action attacks any line of weakness such as a joint or a fault.’

- David Waugh

By a decade he was the last man standing

at the blackboard, delicately nuancing the shading

on a headland or the shy curvature of a tributary

holding the minds of tired teens trained on the tips

of his dusty thumbs.

He was at home with thighs stood strong

against the rush of the Usk

taking muddy measurements of the bed’s depth

or controlling the clustering of kids with clipboards

across Monmouth High Street.

He’d stand over the eroding arch of Durdle Door

explaining the land’s battle

with abrasion and attrition

extolling our fortune at seeing it in arch

before its fall to stack or stump.

Versed in men’s war with the waves

he’d lament the thwarted intentions of groynes

placed to slow the sand’s spread along the coast

our best efforts swallowed by swash

pulled under the plunge line.

His arms raised and spread

dancing the drama of convection currents

or his fingers would clamp as teeth

to give a visual for a cow hoof

compacting the soil about the gate.

He’d mastered the art of the tack

was at one with a topper sailing solo

in circles around us as we faltered with jibs

and slack sheets flapping;

he was always the wind’s favourite.

He was my mother’s finest example of friendship

a welcome addition to Christmas dinner

always careful

not to exhaust

a welcome that could never be outworn.

He’d skin a fish with the best of them

and took pride in sharing

everything

all he caught in the water

and raised from the ground.

He took comfort in the reliability of the familiar

yet never stopped exploring

and when discovering some new gem

he was never satisfied

until it was passed on to his friends.

More than funding hikes, renovations, cohorts, school status,

training drives, intakes or canteen food,

he was so much of what makes a home of a place,

he wrote all his words in chalk

but they will never be erased.

Phil Brown
Poetry Editor