Some words about death. #Halloween Aubade I work all day, - TopicsExpress

Some words about death. #Halloween Aubade I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soun­dless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unres­ting death, a whole day nea­rer now, Making all thought impos­si­ble but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid inter­ro­ga­tion: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and hor­rify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse – The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unu­sed — nor wret­che­dly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong begin­nings, and may never; But at the total emp­ti­ness for ever, The sure extinc­tion that we tra­vel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more ter­ri­ble, nothing more true. This is a spe­cial way of being afraid No trick dis­pels. Reli­gion used to try, That vast, moth-eaten musi­cal bro­cade Cre­a­ted to pre­tend we never die, And spe­ci­ous stuff that says No rati­o­nal being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear — no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anasthe­tic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small, unfo­cu­sed blur, a stan­ding chill That slows each impulse down to inde­ci­sion. Most things may never hap­pen: this one will, And rea­li­sa­tion of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without Peo­ple or drink. Cou­rage is no good: It means not sca­ring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no dif­fe­rent whi­ned at than withstood. Slo­wly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a war­drobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can’t escape, Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telepho­nes crouch, get­ting ready to ring In locked-up offi­ces, and all the unca­ring Intri­cate ren­ted world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Post­men like doc­tors go from house to house. Phi­lip Larkin

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