Keith Brennan

I sing to my mother as I leave, body drained by work and pain, love flows in.

On Raglan Road of an autumn's day, I saw her first.

I knew that her dark hair would weave a snare that I might someday ruin.

I saw the danger and I passed along the enchanted way and I said let grief be a fallen leaf

At the dawning of the day.

Two weeks later, my mother died.

The gravediggers leave shovels by the pile of earth.

I hew the drum-tight skin of it, spade it into the grave.

My muscles sing.

Others grab the second spade.

Once more, spade blades dipping in between each other.

Shoulders and the forearms strain, then burn, and the curve of me curling to the work as I dig to pour the clay that will hold my mother.

I pour in clay brought from my own farm to hold her too.

I gather the last of her to me as I work, her memory, life, words, love.

And as I work I cry, and as I work I sing.