I do not think of you lying in the wet clay <br />Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see <br />You walking down a lane among the poplars <br />On your way to the station, or happily <br /> <br />Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday - <br />You meet me and you say: <br />'Don't forget to see about the cattle - ' <br />Among your earthiest words the angels stray. <br /> <br />And I think of you walking along a headland <br />Of green oats in June, <br />So full of repose, so rich with life - <br />And I see us meeting at the end of a town <br /> <br />On a fair day by accident, after <br />The bargains are all made and we can walk <br />Together through the shops and stalls and markets <br />Free in the oriental streets of thought. <br /> <br />O you are not lying in the wet clay, <br />For it is a harvest evening now and we <br />Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight <br />And you smile up at us - eternally.<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memory-of-my-mother/
