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.
Peck through a flea market
Bargained desirables become proud trinkets
On a lazy day as sun naps
On her hammock of clouds and
Breeze sneaks away to chatter
Snuggle on a sofa with balloon mugs
Brimming with coffee like gossip
Feet up, hair down
Rain like a nagging mother
A cherished presence
Midnight romantic movies
Elbow to elbow lying in bed
Legs dancing with titillation
Night hums in compliance
As stars twirl in sheer delight
Sautéing ideas, roasting discussions
Spilling fears, scalding arguments
Wind holds her breath as
Humidity leaves passively
The dream lives in
Irregular phone calls
While parallel our busy lives run
Amassing memories to share
When the day finally comes.
After aeons we meet
Like birds in spring
Senseless of seasons of separation
No awkward silences, no explanations
We are us, you and me.