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.