The Final Stage of Grief

© copyright 2014 DecaffeinatedCoffees. All rights reserved.

This is a short story sequel to W H Auden's poem, 'Funeral Blues'. I'd hate to give the plot away so just be aware of reading this if you're sensitive to triggers.

"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 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 every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can every come to any good."