Early Spring in England
On this beautiful spring day in February
With delphinium-blue skies and cheeky
Crocuses splashing purple and dazzling
Daffs nodding in agreement, on this mild Aprilesque
Zephyr of a breeze. Then folk do long to go on pilgrimage,
My pilgrimages are to interior parts
Where I seek relics of a past that cannot last
I imagine that if a poet, who I have in mind,
Were given one more day on the mortal sod
This would be the kind of mild, English day
That she would choose. Attempts to resurrect
The past always lead to a cul-de-sac in time
A dereliction of the present. An unwind. A collapse into rhyme.
Contentment is found in the moment
Of flux and uncertainty that lies within the hallowed
Bridge in time that links the now and then.
So few days like this, we are alloted,
Maybe a baker's dozen, over a life-time
Of flowers and trees and high stippled skies
And we come to lose ourselves as Chaucer did so-long ago,
Watching his pilgrims wend their weary ways to Canterbury,
And so, on to eternity.