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
please, if we may.