Is heaven a long summer’s afternoon?
Does it sound like cicada’s singing,
insects, the brush of leaf upon leaf.
The occasional bird calling,
the rest stilled by the sun’s heat.
Is heaven the sun falling below the pine’s crowns,
shining through their needles a lacework pattern.
Is it grass, under leaves still spring green,
and branches like a fan, open.
Is it children laughing, calling,
as children do across the neighbourhood,
and echoing down the passages of time –
that heaven remains balanced
as a needle pivoting,
a musical box playing
the same forever tune.
Yes, heaven at 10 years of age
and heaven now, I think
still bears the comparison,
this long, hot summer’s afternoon.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
A poem from our vanished summer. Nice to remember.