Transposed

After death, when there is nothing left of me
Except the blueprint, as originally conceived by God,
Music will recreate my resurrection body.
Swirling, spiralling its notes,
Transposing my genetic pattern to an order, as yet incomprehensible.

Vapour-like then, unrestricted,
We shall be as choirs.
Wafting over staves and many voices,
Being made, and recreating others.
Drawing into our new being essences of
All we knew as good on earth.

Lord, when I die,
Incorporate me into "Stanford".

Ann R Parker

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