Oh that these words were mine

Once again I find myself cutting and pasting from the internet. If I should write anything as wonderful inspiring as this I could die a happy man.

W.H. Auden: Stop all the Clocks

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.

This was Franks favourite poem. However he did not want it to be his eulogy. Instead, I rose from my pew and said the words of his favourite Goon, the immortal Spike Milligan “I told you I was Ill”, I sat down and laughed for I knew he was sat next to me, holding my hand, telling me it was either going to rain or get dark tomorrow and just like either of these universal truths he would always be my friend. I am sure he whispered “Count your blessings, not your possessions”

Colleagues and relatives were moved to a mixture of both tears of joy and utter, inconsolable sorrow. Anyone who knew Frank (and I am blessed to say I was but one), knew this was the only way he wanted to say goodbye.

Frank believed if you knew this poem you truly knew the person for whom you were grieving.


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