David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
I cannot reach the apple on the tree
It is always too high for me.
I can never write that perfect poem
It always eludes me no matter how
Hard I try.
Walking through the wood and on to
The lake – is that paradise found?
That drifting cloud – that blue sky?
Are we in heaven here on earth
To see such beauty?
Are heaven’s gates ever locked if
Beauty cannot be seen by the beholder?
Is heaven a step too far, a place one
Cannot reach, or are there glimpses
Of heaven we can see here on earth
As our life drifts from day to day?
Comments about this poem (Heaven’s gates by David Wood )
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