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?
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