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 harvest evening now and we Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight And you smile up at us -- eternally. -- Patrick Kavanagh lived in Monaghan as a farmer, cobbler and poet, moving to Dublin in 1939.