TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
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This is one spring you will not see.
The fifty roses of your spray
Smelt soft across that February day
Where trees, heavy as only crematoria
Can bear, sloped down the fallen banks
To where we waited in the chapel, me
Clutching Father Kevin’s hand, remembering
My given grace and faith renewed
In answer to my prayers, Brenda in tears,
And Joyce the sister of my years, Kim
And the others from the Home, where five
Long years you waited for this day,
Of all, the most important.
Phone calls far too few, until we knew
When your last days began and for sixteen
Hours we sat, but still your will to live
Went on until our backs were turned
And then you, too, had gone.
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