If I cant go to heaven I shall ask Chagall to design me a carpet so beautiful angels will jostle for a place on it.
I’ll take his painting to Serbian weavers who will use natural dyes to achieve colours I remember filling a field in Autumn – the sprouted blue of individual cabbages yellow anarchy of weeds and happy poppy red, bedded in a heavy Suffolk soil.
If I can create some order from this, a secure border out of the tangled bramble hedge, a safe enclosure, where I can lie free to find the changing patterns of the sky then I shan’t mind staying here on Earth.
One of two poems by Cicely Herbert in this issue.