Proof of heaven

As in a soup, spoon-hot,
I float with noodles –
the yellow tubes hold me up
and I defy gravity,
my organs mystified at the lack of pressure
from above or below

All is calm: I drift,
waiting for God to speak

Like Julian, I look for showings
of what is real – the deal
that defies description

I feel love push me
in different directions, and
my firm convictions sink:
they are too heavy

All right, I am clinging on,
but the bright white flowers
and the sun behind
make me forget all that

Grace is pouring in and out:
its currents propel me gently
from side to side

Sometimes I kick, but
I do not escape

For a while, this
is proof of heaven:
paper bark falls from birch trees
and lies on the grass, unread


As promised, this is the third poem I read at Walpole Old Chapel in Suffolk a couple of weeks ago. The earlier ones can be found by clicking on Poetry.