For my sons... (Poetry Monthly)

If I ever get to see those pearly gates,

misted like a distant hill,

or if I'm caught on charcoal shores, 

waiting for the open hands of God,

I'll draw for you, 

in all their grace,

the sinners kissing angels' feet.

 

I’ll sketch for you a graffitied well

where the scattered souls of man

are propped up by wild coloured birds,

and sweet notes on the skimming breeze.

 

So you can tell your mother not to worry.

Don't tremble like a cricket's wing.

We're not built to last;

not meant to survive.

 

If I ever get to see those pearly gates,

misted like some past regrets,

or if I'm trapped on charcoal shores, 

I promise to never put your toys on the barbecue,

I’ll tell mum to let you eat toothpaste

till your bellies hurt,

to tuck tuck you up snug every single night

with Calpol, cuddles and soft play mornings.

 

But you must promise me

to always thank the lifts for lifts,

say ‘Night night park,’ and ‘Bye bye water.’

Always complain ‘mummy's a little bit

annoying.’

Say ‘I don't like you, daddy,

go in the bin.’

 

Promise me to

tell your mother not to worry.

Don't tremble like a cricket's wing.

We're not built to last;

not meant to survive.

 

I'll draw the earth.

Shade each pointless border.

Flick green spears of grass to hide

the crickets in.

 

So if I ever get to see those pearly gates,

misted like your mother’s eyes,

or if I'm stood on charcoal shores, 

I'll do my all to capture God

and whisper to you

from a cricket's wing.