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 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 (1904-1967)
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