A Sort of Pilgrim

Sometimes the heart aches for that Spring morningWhere there were no cars or computers.And maybe even for that April month,Reprieved at last from a drought-filled MarchWith sweet showers from an abiding heaven.To waken in the Tabard and meet thePilgrims eager to greet a morning filledWith promise, with bird song and sweet silence.But this is a dream wrapped in a fantasy –We would be more than strangers in their world.The most corrupt in the group still ambledTo a grave which would always be a shrine.Heaven and hell, which promised and threatened,Have been banished from their spiritual homesAnd sent to abide in the human heart.We still fear death as we plod on our way,But for most, there’s a rest, no destination.