Gravity Poem by Conor Dowd

In a cinematic still the apple must descend -
but that depends on gravity,
he said.

In Lincolnshire today the tree survives,
they say,
an icon of invention,
of a driven life,
its mass weighed down by centuries
of time and trial.

The crescent moon remains intact
and hangs,
a sliver in the sky,
a marble motion held as fact.

But a pact with science drove him mad
and teased him with unfinished clues
to choose a path
or loose his mind instead:
the crossroads of his life arrived -
one way was Life,
the other Life denied.

A flash of inspiration sliced the sky
as lightning flashed across his eyes...

And an apple falls and splits the air -
a shadow in the evening light
of Lincolnshire,
or anywhere.