He knelt by a grave where forget-me-nots grew
In the shape of a cross, a beautiful blue.
His pain too poignant, his anguish too deep,
His woe too intense – not one tear could he weep.
The tears might have softened the sobs hard and dry;
And yet not a single tear moistened his eye.
He mused: “From blest bowers in God’s lovely town,
I know Mary often looks lovingly down
On me, her true lover, heart-broken and sad,
Whom she loved as a man, and admired as a lad.
And I know that she’ll meet me and greet me again
In that land where there’s neither sin, sorrow nor pain.
And I’m sure that true lovers God joined here below
Will join hands again where God’s white Lilies grow.
For true love’s immortal, true love will not die,
While the true God of true love is reigning on high”
Footnote: This poem was written about his wife’s grave in Dunmoyle. Michael walked to Dunmoyle every day. First from Shane and latter from Foremass.