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.
