My friend and I went walking through spring woods,
where early bluebells caught the blue of sky
through light green leaves.
We found our favourite place –
an old log seat, our backs against the trunks
of beech and alder.
We talked of this, and that,
shared news of friends and family, when suddenly
she said: ‘What’s heaven really like?’
Old memories of Sunday School came flooding in:
‘All singing hymns,’ I said, ‘and playing harps
while sitting on a cloud.’
‘Sitting on a cloud?’ she said,
‘I shan’t like that, too damp around the bot!’ We laughed
and laughed, and then she said: ‘I’ll tell you –
when I get there!’ And we went back to my place
for tea and cake.
But as spring melted into summer,
my friend grew pale and ill, until at summer’s end
she died.
And so I walked alone
through autumn woods, the leaves
in shades of gold
and brown and drifting on the wind.
I sat
in our old place, leaning against a beech.
And in my head I heard her laughter.
‘It’s fun out here,’ she said.
‘No hymns, no harps and not a cloud in sight.
But there’s music, and meetings with old friends
and loved ones, sharing memories and stories.
There’s joy, and hope, and oh! Such beauty!
And overall – a sense of wonder.
What’s heaven like? Like all
the best bits of earth you’ve ever known.
I’ll show you, when you get here.’
Rosi MorganBarry
