So softly in the summer night
Your fragile vessel has set sail,
Back through your Irish Infancy,
Bound for the Islands of the Blest.
We stand upon our adult shores
And through the curtain of our tears
Perceive at last, in all its grace,
Your loving presence in our lives.
Now comes the gathering of our years,
the harvest of our childhood days,
And in the barns of memory
We store the blessings
of your love.
For my brothers and sisters
In loving memory of our Mother 1903 – 1992
Je suis le jardinier
Roi de mes quelques ares,
L’accoucheur au seuil de la vie
Et nourrice aux petits aux faibles.
Je suis le portier fidèle
Au portail des saisons,
Le semeur aux bras longs
Le tuteur qui tient ferme et bon.
Je suis le porteur d’eau
Soulageant les assoiffés,
Mais aussi le bourreau,
L’envahisseur des microcosmes.
Je suis le bûcheron
Elarguant les branches stériles,
L’incendiaire des feuilles mortes,
Le fossoyeur des trépassés.
Je serai moi-même à la fin,
Le grain qui meurt et qui vit,
L’humus qui renouvelle la terre.
Mais, jusqu’à la tombée du fruit,
Je suis l’homme comblé
Humant l’odeur de ses roses,
Le Bon Dieu qui se promène
A la fraîcheur du soir.
When finally the boatman comes
To ferry me across the Styx,
Don’t stay to wave me out of sight
But turn again to living things.
Turn back towards the healing sun
And in some patch of cherished earth
Scatter a wilderness of phlox,
Of lilac, foxgloves, hollyhocks,
That from my shore, with straining eyes,
I see their spires of blossoms rise
And catch upon a straying wind
The fragrance of their scent and yours.
November 1989
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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