Patrick Kavanagh

I Heard You Laugh

For E.S.

You sat on a grey evening ditch
When the August dusk was full of stooks.
Strange and sweet as the holy witch,
Your laugh was a fantastic poem in many books.

I listened among the blackberries weird 
That no lip has crushed to wine-red glory.
I heard you laugh through a mystic briary beard,
And could no more remember life's simple story.
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