The Funeral

 

The Funeral

Stop all the clocks and cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum bring out 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 forever.

I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out everyone.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun and pour away the ocean.

And sweep up the wood or nothing now can ever come to any good.