Trixie by Alexa Garrett / Alexa

From W.H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues”

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum,
bring out the coffin…let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle, moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky a message: She is Dead
Put crepe bows ’round the necks of public doves,
let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East, my West
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought 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 out the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 

I miss you Trixie,