When his mother died, Seamus Heaney
wrote a poem about folding a sheet with her.
So many days I have lifted sheets
from the line with my own mother.
She taught me the way of folding.
Together we would dance to and fro,
handing the cloth to her as she made
the final fold, a pat and sigh,
that slight smile to meet my eye,
then on to the next.
I never wanted it to end.
poem and photograph Rose Cook