Monday, August 7
at 4:55 a.m.
There are somethings that you just can't prepare for. A few moments, and suddenly everything changes; every action - even the smallest of them - takes on new meaning.
And of course, I can't even begin to imagine what this whole experience is like for those who are grieving most.
As I've been thinking over the events of the past weekend, this is what came to mind:
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 crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
From"Funeral Blues" by W. H. Auden.
This space will be quiet for the next little while.
And of course, I can't even begin to imagine what this whole experience is like for those who are grieving most.
As I've been thinking over the events of the past weekend, this is what came to mind:
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 crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
From"Funeral Blues" by W. H. Auden.
This space will be quiet for the next little while.
Anonymous at 8/07/2006 12:41:00 p.m.