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.