Untitled (Over the kind brown earth we bend)

Over the kind brown earth we bend
Knowing how warm a grave must be
In October. O Death send
In October time your warrant for me.
And here as we lift the soil-baked bread - 
The potatoes - we are not filled with dread
That hunger should touch Eternity

We pick the potatoes and move aside
The withered flesh, and the gulls come down
Like a flock of angels. The countryside
Is emptied out. There is only town
And the place of souls beyond the night
A star over Galway shines as bright
As a lamp in a cave or Mary's crown

§ Line 8 is revised from:
'We pick the potatoes and finger away'.