Looking for funeral blues, I came instead to
the stopping of the clocks.
They were cold and black and white,
and stooped like statues: grey against the grey.
The motions never moving quite how they should;
never moving, barely better, rarely good.
The clocks had stopped, and in his wake I heard them say:
Bring the living back this way, and
let their living move the dews of broken day.
