In Competition No. 3322 you were invited to submit a poem reflecting on the fate of the Sycamore Gap tree, planted in the late 19th century by Newcastle lawyer John Clayton.

Antony Gormley, who has a studio in Hexham near the site of the felled tree, has described it as ‘a marker in the lie of the land’. Talk of replacing it with a sculpture is wrongheaded, he said, quoting fellow artist Mark Wallinger: ‘A sculpture and a tree are very different, and in most cases a tree is always preferable.’

Several competitors drew to great effect on Manley Hopkins’s 1879 ‘Binsey Poplars’, inspired by the felling of a row of poplar trees on the bank of the River Thames. David Shields earns a commendation.

The winners below scoop £25.

If you’re a photogenic, striking tree,

rejoice! We have in Hexham, by a wall,

a full-time role for you, a vacancy,

you must be landmark-worthy, ancient, tall,

adept at being honoured, hugged, admired,

a sentinel and shelter, resting-place.

Stargazers will enthuse, their nights inspired,

you’ll symbolise resistance, nature’s grace.

For generations you will proudly stand,

beloved, famous; hikers by the score

will trek to you across the wild northland

to view one leafy, lush, lone sycamore.

Branch out in your career, put roots down, grow,

be vandal-proof until your late retirement –

a vital skill, for since a recent blow,

it is, in fact, our number one requirement.

Janine Beacham

Sycamore, sycamore, beautiful sycamore,

How can it be that you’re felled in your prime,

Target of evil or psychopathology,

Prey to an odious, hideous crime?

Towering, flowering pride of Northumberland

Loved by romantics and dreamers galore,

Ally of artists and astrophotographers,

What in the world were you sacrificed for?

Prominent, eminent, elegant sentinel

Guarding the wall as the centuries passed,

How could the teeth of a 21st-century

Chainsaw have torn through your heartwood at last?

Sycamore, sycamore, beautiful sycamore,

Why are you pallid and drained of your sap,

Leaving behind you an incomprehensible

Wound, and a heartrending sycamore gap?

Alex Steelsmith

Our experts find the sycamore to be

non-native and invasive, since it came

after the flood in Doggerland. The tree

was planted by a plutocrat whose name

was current in the eighteenth century

and must assume its portion of his blame.

This alien growth usurps ecology,

appropriates the natural Great Whin frame,

won’t host our lichenous community,

and shades our flora with its spurious fame.

It stands moreover on a boundary

of empires, where it greenwashes the shame

of Angevin and Roman primacy,

while blocking up a gap that shows the claim

of Pictish folk to that diversity

that is the Trust’s philosophy and aim.

Nick MacKinnon

Wee treasured, long-lived sycamore,

For centuries your leaves you wore

And showered affection from your core

Looking sae braw.

Alas, you heard the awful roar

Of man’s cruel saw.

You thought to live a thousand years,

Alone and loved and free of fears,

Now those you charmed are shedding tears.

You cease to please.

The sweetest hope oft disappears

Of men and trees…

Frank McDonald

A sycamore, so dearly held,

alas, alas, has just been felled,

and now, alas, there is a gap –

murdered, murdered, in cold sap!

A bird that nested in that tree

became, alas, a refugee.

And yet the stump’s surviving lumber,

vitalised and disencumbered

of the weight that it once bore,

will sprout again, and then, once more,

in years to come, a tree as good

and fine as any made of wood

and leaves and limbs will gain renown –

till someone cuts the new tree down.

Robert Schechter

Bell Scott tells it as it was –

Centurion on Wall –

Clayton dressed in Roman coz –

Britons loll and sprawl –

Clayton buys a Wall-side farm –

Plants one stunning tree –

Fills the U-dip like a charm –

Which Clayton will not see –

Clayton saving Grainger’s bacon –

Here’s Newcastle’s spoor –

In the country, godforsaken –

Plants his sycamore –

Chopped and stumped and merely firewood –

Clayton can’t be beat –

I think of saplings shooting skyward –

While crossing Clayton Street –

Bill Greenwell

No. 3325: I spy

You are invited to describe an encounter between Bertie Wooster and James Bond in the style of P.G. Wodehouse. Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@-spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 November.