Mostly I remember the elm trees
That lined the road to my grandparent's house
Was there ever a more graceful cathedral
Nave of greenish-golden light
The Celts felt they only grew
Near the entrances to the underworld
And conveniently for me and them
Just a short walk down a cemetery
Where the ghost of my uncle priest
Slept under his stone but rose
To talk with me when I would visit
I was sixteen and full of questions
But not the one he wanted to hear
For which he's waited all these years
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