Heaven

When I'm in heaven,
tell me there'll be kites to fly;
the kind they say you can control
although I never did for long
the kind that spin, and spin, and spin, and spin
then sulk, and dive, and die, and rise again and spin again
and dive and die and rise up yet again.
I love those kites


When I'm in heaven,
tell me there'll be friends to meet
in ancient oak-beamed Sussex pubs enfolded by the wanton downs
and summer evenings lapping lazily against the shore of sweet familiar little lands
inhabited by silence or by nonsenses;
the things you cannot safely say in any other place.
I love those times.


When I'm in heaven,
tell me there'll be seasons when the colors fly
poppies splashing, flaying through dying yellow, living green
and autumn's burning sadness that has always made me cry.
The things that have to end.
For winter fires that blaze like captive suns
but look so cold when the morning comes.
I do love the way the seasons change


When I'm in heaven,
tell me there will be peace at last.
That in some meadow filled with sunshine, 
filled with buttercups and filled with friends,
You will chew a straw, and fill us in on how things really are;
and if there is some harm in laying earthly hope at heaven's door
or in this saying so;
well, have mercy on my foolishness, dear Lord,
I love this world you made,
it's all I know.


I struggle more than anyone I know with the idea of heaven. What it will be like. There is no way to tell for sure, and as I think about eternity I begin to get scared and it is hard for me to fix my mind on alternate things so that I do not scare myself anymore. It's exactly as the poet, Phil Baggaley says, "I love this world you made, it's all I know."