Irish Hill Poem by John F. McCullagh

Bury me at Irish Hill
a shroud of linen on my face
do not embalm my mortal flesh.
or box me in expensive wood

Find me a place beneath a tree
once I am senseless like a stone
return me to my mother's breast
return me to my quondam home

From dust to dust the preacher says
It's right and just what he intones
return me to my rightful place
beneath the rich and fertile loam

And when the sun shall shine again
I will make a flower grow
A flower with a fragrance rare
its petals joined in silent prayer.