Bookstores of Heaven

By Jorge Royan (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0  ( )], via Wikimedia Commons

It’s not actually in Heaven, it’s in Prague.

I dreamed I went to Heaven, once, and in the bookshop there
I went, the way I always go, to R.
Even though I’ve all the Renault, even though it isn’t fair,
Even though I know there won’t be any more.

And there were six new Renaults, six new books I’ve never seen,
Six unknown books she’d written since she died,
And I picked them up and held them feeling happy as a queen,
And a voice said, “Have you looked the other side?”

“There are four new Tolkiens waiting, he could never write them fast,
There are thirty Heinleins, written at his best,
There is Piper, there’s Dunsany, there’s more Sayers here at last,
And O’Brian, and Zelazny, and the rest.”

And I staggered there in Heaven, as my arms and eyes spilled o’er,
And I said “Now where to start I just don’t know,
I am rich in wealth of Heaven’s books, here gathered on the floor,
Amd four hundred years of Shakespeare still to go!”

June 2000, Swansea.