With delphinium-blue skies and cheeky
Crocuses splashing purple and dazzling
Daffs nodding agreement, in this mild April
Zephyr of a breeze – then folk do long to go on pilgrimage. 
Our pilgrimages tend to interiority:
We still 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 this  mortal sod
This would be the kind of mild, English day
That she would choose. The attempt to resurrect 
The past always leads to dereliction of the
The present. That quantum moment
Of flux and uncertainty, within the hollowed
Out bridge in time, that links the fleeting past
With an unknowable future.
Just so many days like this we are allotted:
The flowers and trees and the Turner-skies
Of this benign and blessed old country of ours.
And we can lose ourselves, as Chaucer did, so-long ago, 
Among pilgrims who wend their weary ways to Canterbury.