Promoting Poetry in Scotland

Heaven | edwin morgan


We have seen too many films

to be bowled over by many mansions,

but still, there it was: big, mostly bright,

crowding off as far as eye could see,

a palimpsest of saved burrows and pinnacles

in so many dimensions it seemed insubstantial,

yet busy with colour, smells, cries, stripes of light

like an old bazaar.

Bizarre! And keys at the gate! Incredible! Rings of them,

ancient, made of metal, for each arriver —

and no instructions to find your own place.

We have had too many nightmares

not to know that winding drive

that grows darker and darker

overhung with rhododendrons.

Shaking, we follow it

to the black, mossed porch.

The house is derelict.

We tiptoe up the stair

to the last room

with the last key

and get it to growl

round in its hole

and let us push into

paradise, paradise

please, if we may.

happiness | the bearsden shark | at poppy’s | my day among the cannonballs