To My Mother

Most near, most dear, most loved and most far, Under the window where I often found her Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter, Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand, Irresistible as Rabelais, but most tender for The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her - She is a procession no one can follow after But be like a little dog following a brass band. She will not glance up at the bomber, or condescend To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar, But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain Whom only faith can move, and so I send O all my faith, and all my love to tell her That she will move from mourning into morning.