A Dream Of Heaven Poem by Roy Ballard

In heaven building workers play the lute;
it's mostly Dowland otherwise they're mute.
Likewise loudspeakers! London's razed and burned
like all big cities and the earth returned
to grateful ploughland. Now the swan and coot
float over quondam Islington and Peckham.
Great dozers cleared the suburbs to the root.
Chained to the cliffs where eagles come to peck'em
are all those boring preachers and campaigners.
Wear if you like your ancient jeans and trainers.

Bright tracks of rail line former motorways;
there's hissing steam. Prize flower tubs and sprays
deck every station, climbing roses reaching
above your dreams of railways pre-Beeching.
All things you like to do are good, they earn
a salary. You could arrange to climb
Mount Everest the first and only time
with Mallory or if you choose to go
to Ascot or the Chelsea Flower Show
the weather is whatever you decide.

Although in heaven no-one ever died,
fear not stagnation for, by little changes,
you get to tread the length of heaven's ranges.
So gently do the wheels of heaven revolve
that barely do you know that you evolve
Like lilies of the field you end your story
exceeding Solomon in all his glory.
Your story ends when more cannot be told
for there are things beyond what words can hold.