The poem
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.
fantastic poem without a shaddow of adoubt!!!!
sorry to let you know but the info on Patrick Kavanagh is wrong. The photo that is posted is not that of the irish poet born in Inniskeen
Gail from Ireland is right. That photo is not of the late Irish poet, but of the very much alive Newfoundland novelist of the same name. Some people say that the current PK's novel Gaff Topsails is 'poetic', but he certainly has never written let alone published a single poem in his entire life. Also he has never fallen drunk into the Grand Canal.
PK