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.