Blow

 

Blow out the sun,

pack the sky in mothballs.

Fold up the clouds,

crease the sea in armfuls.

Wring out the valleys,

strip the hills of padding.

Grate up the trees,

stir the lake silt into pudding.

Lock up life

and throw away

the key as soon

as morning’s over.

Shut beyond

the bedroom door

on the staircase,

in the hall,

I can hear

our household

shadows

laughing

at his falling,

at his fading,

at my call.

 

After W. H. Auden’s "Stop All the Clocks"