Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now.
Philip Larkin, ‘Aubade’
I slip out of bed, have had 8 hours, am waiting
for my bloods back. The cosmos is waiting upstairs
spread out as an enticement to astronomers,
astrologers and astronauts.
I photograph Orion sliding over the forest
on an amazing screen of cosmic glitter,
with not enough colour or cloud chamber
action to satisfy the greedier retinas.
Another perspective finds palm fronds
scraping the railing across a distant squabble,
flying foxes. There’s always sounds, if not a score.
Over an hour till the Kookaburras kick off.
The Pacific sings gruff restricted wavelengths
over an hour later colour arrives, a touch of magic,
patterns without chaos. We all have cancer,
mine is in remission and I am in love.
Note: Larkin began writing ‘Aubade’ in 1974 when he was 54. He finished it after the death of his mother three years later. First published, TLS, 1977.
