Jul 19
Brendan Kehoe

Photo by Diarmaid Mac Aonghusa

Farewell, dear friend. W. H. Auden says it for so many of us:

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.

At home in Mayo, I have stopped our longcase clock, the Thomas Ross from Hull, to symbolize that Time has stopped for you. You shall never be forgotten, dear Brendan. And we will all do our best to look after Elana and Patrick and Eoin. We loved you, and love you, and ever shall.

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