This is the green of great fatherís
Sheep and geese and the pond
Floods with late wintersí rains;
Rains run rivulets of tears
On my motherís face, a lilac light
That comes as the white moon softly come.
And this is the grave of my fatherís
Bones and skull and his words
Shape my thoughts as I scream.
Scream for you, for you to hear
Wind blows like woeful bugle blew
Through trees, his foot prints the muddy path home.
This wake, the avenue of my fatherís ash,
Yew, oak, elm that grew his Spring buds.
Birds spring, dawn flock and echo light.
Light feather, a false praise of hubric sun
Turning earth. Turned earth: runner beans,
Beings slow, marrow, kale, stop, watch, fall and pray.