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A poem by HARRY OWEN

On the dawn of a day chasing pay-cheques,
06:07 AM precisely, home he
Staggers via Farringdon
Station; sweaty back, shaky legs, face
Pale as frost
And, in his wan
Hand, a girl as clammy and shaky and
Hollow.

The first trains arrive: four or five
Weary passengers (spread
Out, stern, silent) glare at the twosome who
Are not whizzing their way to some work, who
Return to Earth slowly, like
Somnambulists stirring from
Twenty-one
Years of deep slumber.

So they sit: fluorescent ski-jackets,
Tiger-print tights and orbed owl-eyes
Mark out Martians in motion a mile away – not
That the happy pair care, having soared
Near the sun, having danced
On new planets. Know that Earthlings will always
Envy moonwalkers who pick fruits from
The stars

Before space-frozen supernovas
Cool at the core and comets
Turn into craters, collide with the dust
From long-distant planets, settle
On your star-gazey hopes; burning
Old orbs – bruised, baggy and blood-shot –
Falling falling falling into line with a whimper, with a
Cra$$$$$$hhhhhhhhhh.

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Images credited to fabriclondon.com