In Memory Of My Mother

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay

Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see

You walking down a lane among the poplars

On your way to the station, or happily

 

Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday 

You meet me and you say:

‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle’

Among your earthiest words the angels stray.

 

And I think of you walking along a headland

Of green oats in June,

So full of repose, so rich with life –

And I see us meeting at the end of a town

 

On a fair day by accident, after

The bargains are all made and we can walk

Together through the shops and stalls and markets

Free in the oriental streets of thought.

 

O you are not lying in the wet clay,

For it is a harvest evening now and we

Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight

And you smile up at us – eternally.

 

Patrick Kavanagh

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