In memory of my mother - by Patrick Kavanagh
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.
I wonder what memories my sons will have of me...here i am fashioning our lives, building up little pictures for them and i don't even realise it. On Wednesday i yelled at Oisin. He had not had breakfast yet and had managed to get to SPAR to buy a Refresher bar. Put that in the bin, i yelled at him. He proceed to PRETEND to put it in the bin - stuffing his face while he was standing beside the bin. I managed to catch him at it. Do you know how bad sugar is for you Oisin? I was yelling. If my son every writes poetry it'll be,
There she stood, shouting, her voice calling
from behind the glass doors -
PUT THAT IN THE BIN! and i snatching sweet
paradise from the last inch of the Refresher bar.
But then there was today. Every Friday the boys and myself are left on our own cos Peter goes to zen. We make dinner and then we have a bath and then we watch a DVD with duvets tucked around us. I cuddled my younger son, kissing him, saying to him Garfield is a giraffe, no, he's not a giraffe, he's a cat. He's a chocolate, no he's not chocolate, he's cat. He's tractor, no he's not tractor...it's a little game Ghin and i play. I'll say something it is not and he's tell me it's not that thing. It's really fun for some reason.
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.
I wonder what memories my sons will have of me...here i am fashioning our lives, building up little pictures for them and i don't even realise it. On Wednesday i yelled at Oisin. He had not had breakfast yet and had managed to get to SPAR to buy a Refresher bar. Put that in the bin, i yelled at him. He proceed to PRETEND to put it in the bin - stuffing his face while he was standing beside the bin. I managed to catch him at it. Do you know how bad sugar is for you Oisin? I was yelling. If my son every writes poetry it'll be,
There she stood, shouting, her voice calling
from behind the glass doors -
PUT THAT IN THE BIN! and i snatching sweet
paradise from the last inch of the Refresher bar.
But then there was today. Every Friday the boys and myself are left on our own cos Peter goes to zen. We make dinner and then we have a bath and then we watch a DVD with duvets tucked around us. I cuddled my younger son, kissing him, saying to him Garfield is a giraffe, no, he's not a giraffe, he's a cat. He's a chocolate, no he's not chocolate, he's cat. He's tractor, no he's not tractor...it's a little game Ghin and i play. I'll say something it is not and he's tell me it's not that thing. It's really fun for some reason.
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