How will it be when I’m dead?
Will I hear music playing in my head,
see a dove fly by in a clear blue sky,
hear a newborn baby’s very first cry
and Ella singing?

How will it be when I die?
Will I wing with the dove, oh, so high
that I can look down and see
those I’ve loved crying rivers for me
or rivers run dry?

How will it be when I’m gone?
World keeps turning and life goes on
so where does that leave me,
courtesy (hopefully) of a spirituality
come clean?

How will it be when I’m dead?
will I still compose poems in my head,
grieve a sorry world lost its way
for listening to what its ‘betters’ say
who haven’t a clue?

I’ll never know until I’m dying
but when I am, be sure I’ll be flying high
among doves with you, listening
out for every newborn baby’s crying
and Ella singing