Astronauts Returning

We take Gravity for granted.
The one, unmovable law of physics,
until it is removed.
Gravity is like life.
We take it granted,
Until it is changed.
Sometimes for the better,
sometime for the worse,
and in so many ways we will not know about.

It is the first day after a relationship ends.
The first day after a redundancy notice.
Nothing is the same.
And yet, around us, it continues.
The sun is still rising and setting.
Nature will still settle, and move on,
Migrations will still happen coming with noise,
leaving with silence.

One day the shops will re-open.
We will hear voices other than our own,
and doom-mongers on the radio.
Hear musicians play and actors act again,
have a different attitude towards Buskers,
or people that hog pavements.

We are changed by life, by events,
like Astronauts without Gravity,
they are changed physically, on the molecular level,
and when they return, to gravity, they must learn to walk again.
We will always be astronauts returning,
taking everything step by step.

Every Day is Like Sunday

The neighbours are cleaning their cars,
the third time this week.
They will never shine like this again.
The neighbours are cutting their Lawns,
playing a symphony with the notes
produced by their mowers.
The Church Bells are still.
Silent.

We have the same rituals, daily.
Read the papers.
Watch the news.
Listen to experts,
and people on Facebook, and Twitter,
spouting their incendiary views.

We take the government sanctioned walk.
That brief respite from the house
Is a sanctuary.
We start conversations with former
Nodding acquaintances,
And look forward to things going
Back to a normal
That will never really be.
Someone somewhere is playing Itchycoo Park.
No-one is playing Morrissey.

Ben is a poet located in the United Kingdom.