Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
— from Philip Larkin’s “Aubade”
Photo credit: By Keith D at English Wikipedia, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4133665