Missing the sea by Derek Walcott

Something removed roars in the ears of this house,

Hangs its drapes windless, stuns mirrors

Till reflections lack substance

Some sound like the gnashing of windmills ground

To a dead halt;

A deafening absence, a blow.

It hoops this valley, weighs this mountain,

estranges gesture, pushes this pencil

through a thick nothing now,

Freights cupboards with silence, folds sour laundry

Like the clothes of the dead left exactly 

As the dead behaved by the beloved,

Incredulous, expecting occupancy.

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