'NOW THAT YOU'RE GONE' by Emily Macdonald

I don’t know why the sun still sets and rises or why flowers unfurl, why they blaze in beauty
when they should hang their heads, droop and wither.

Why children still laugh and run when the school bell rings or why the bin men shout over
their diesel engine and whining hydraulics every Monday morning.

I don’t know why traffic lights still blink green, amber and red. Why shops still open their
doors, why tables are wiped clean outside cafes and bars, why commuters still rush to the
station for the trains that keep on arriving.

I don’t know why a river still runs, chattering in its course under laden green trees, or why
waves still beat at the shore.

Or why the radio still sounds beeping pips reminding me, another hour has passed with you
absent.

But when I open my curtains tomorrow morning, looking for stillness, listening for silence, if
the colour and sound has bleached from the world, I’ll demand to know why my grief has
been compounded.