My previous two posts considered the possibility that our souls may leave remnants behind when our stay here comes to an end. I should have noted at the outset of this excursion that, in bringing up this subject, I am not attempting to be profound or metaphysical or anything of that sort.
As is always the case, I am merely idly ruminating. This detour was occasioned by a small poem by Mary Coleridge, not by a weighty contemplation upon Our Place In The Universe. There shall be no ontology here.
In the interest of further idle rumination, the following poem by Patrick Kavanagh is, I think, a lovely instance of how we may leave something of our soul behind.
I walked under the autumned poplars that my father planted
On a day in April when I was a child
Running beside the heap of suckers
From which he picked the straightest, most promising.
My father dreamt forests, he is dead --
And there are poplar forests in the waste-places
And on the banks of drains.
When I look up
I see my father
Peering through the branched sky.
Patrick Kavanagh, Collected Poems (Penguin/Allen Lane 2004).