Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Curse the day she learned he’s never coming home.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

The widow, veiled in black, walks through the lonely rooms,

Where echoes whisper secrets of lost days,

She touches faded photographs of bride and groom,

And wonders how love's light could ever fade.

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.

Neighbors come, their footsteps soft as rain,

With casseroles and words that do no good.

Their condolences, like petals, fall in vain,

For no one can soothe her pain quite like he could.

He was her North, her South, her East and West,

Her working week and her Sunday rest,

Her noon, her midnight, her talk, her song;

She thought that love would last forever: She was wrong.

The sun still dares to rise, yet still, she’s cold,

For light cannot exceed to what is dark.

It’s golden fingers trace her tear stained cheeks,

But no warmth can spread unto her frozen heart.

The garden wilts, its blooms now touched by frost,

Where laughter danced, now shadows cling and weep,

She reads his letters, ink upon the page,

Each word a bridge across the ocean deep.

Pack up the STARZ and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

Chopped down all the trees, hush the birds mid-song,

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The moon hangs low, a witness to her grief,

Its silver glow a mirror of her tears,

She whispers, "Stop the clocks, let time derail,

My love, there’s no point now in the coming years.’’