Geoffrey Chaucer died last weekend
about six hundred years ago.
One Autumn day muffled drums tapped
out a dying pulse, a knock at
heaven’s gate. I listen for hooves,
the soft thud of an old man’s shoes
on the path outside the ‘grace mansion’
in the corner of the churchyard,
thinking he might just be riding
down to Canterbury again;
but no, hooves and voices are both
silent. No more good wives’ tales
set down between journeys on the
King’s or even Bishop’s business
and reread at evening stops at
some inn along the Kentish road.

I sit a little longer, sad
until the voices of a priest,
a nun, a soldier, an ostler
carry to me upon the breeze
and I know the pleasure you will,
somewhere, sometime, in future years.