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.

 

Helen Waddell