Stop the clocks

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Dusting the cobwebs of this blog, and noticed how the last post occurred in Spring 2013 - preceding a period of optimism (Dad's impending reversal of his ileostomy bag, following prolonged post surgical complications after a bowel tumour removal), then doom -  the appearance of his second tumour - of brain - and rapid demise. Even after almost a year of loss, I can barely muster the energy to spend even an ounce of effort on anything other than getting through the necessary professional and home requirements. Damn, bereavement is draining. I supposed you'd argue I'm better off than Dad right now though (or not depending on your outlook). Anyhow.

It's a pity the above poem has been 'ruined' by its association with a thousand and one schmoltsy Richard Curtis copycat moments.

Miss you Dad, miss you every day. Rest in Peace x