I shall not go to Heaven when I die.
But if they let me be
I think I’ll take the road I used to know
That goes to Shanagarra and the sea
And I shall hear the west wind blow
And I shall hear nothing but the curlews cry
And the waves talking in the sea below
I think it will be winter when I die.
For no one from the North could die in spring.
And all the heather will be dead and grey.
And the bog cotton will have blown away,
And there will be no yellow on the whin.
But I shall smell the peat
And when it’s almost dark I’ll set my feet
Where white track goes glimmering to the hills,
and see far up a light…
Would you think Heaven would be so small a thing?
As a lit window on the hill at night?
And I come stumbling from the gloom,
Half- blind, into the fire lit room
Turn, and see you and there abide.
If it were true
And if I thought they would let me be.
I almost wish it were tonight I died.