Heaven, I sometimes think, must be
where I grew up – mid-August,
the raspberries run wild and ripe,
hens scratching in the yard,
the house dim and cool,
red tiles under bare feet;
where, all the long afternoon,
those whom I love and will love
arrive, sleepy, stretch out on the lawn,
washed in the sunlight after the long drive,
and, after, talk late round the kitchen table,
plates pushed aside,
with song and red wine and laughter,
the world set to rights.
Kathleen Jowitt 