All around me that midnight’s
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing,
A pulse of fever. Somewhere
Inside that numbness of earth
Our future trying to happen.
I look up – as if to meet your voice
With all its urgent future
That has burst in on me. Then look back
At the book of printed words.
You are ten years dead. It is only a story.
Your story. My story.
Ted Hughes – Birthday Letters