Saturday, 26 December 2015

Christmas at the Cemetery

3 breaks, the wine glass after the hot wash, the champagne glass hit by the cracker contents and then the glass plate destroyed in the microwave.

A visit to the cemetery and my dress caught on the angel wings on my mother's grave and now I have a hole in my black dress. It was as I was walking away, she wanted me to stay and tell her more. So I gardened in the rain. I raked weeds and pulled roots, the candle burned on.

And what am I reminded of as I light candles and leave roses?
I didn't tell her all the news:

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.


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