The Poets Enter Heaven Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

will we be noisy ghosts and tramp through
other people's rose bushes
or rattle the branches of the venerable elms on odd Novembered eves

or sing through the eaves like a banshee wind,

the poets asked themselves at first arrival
in the afterlands,
no luggage in their hands;

sometimes a withered leaf or two retaining ruby red
or ochre or the mysterious, lemony gold.
something to remember earth by,

they explained to the angels who'd seen it all before.
The Next Door Through, they cried stentorian like
and trying not to laugh (at the state of their shoes)

The Poet's Hall
and then,
we'll see what you can do.

mary angela douglas 29 june 2016