Wild Geese

The prognosis – not good;
three months, they gave you,
at the most. So –
a pilgrimage, this.

Winter, 1999, our trip
to Lincoln Cathedral – ate a picnic
in its grounds, saw darkness fall.

Watched its triple towers
take on a different light.

At its altar
you lit a candle,
whispered an Ave Maria.

I lit one for you,
for all the good
I knew it would do,

wishing all the while
your faith was mine,

whilst the Imp looked on,
unimpressed – po-faced,
atop the Angel Choir.

Once more
through the shadows
of its cinereous stone walls
we were drawn to its gardens.

The scent of binding jasmine,
yellow flowered, rising ever high
to ox-blood red November skies,
mingled with strains of evensong,

as did our last-ditch hopes
and futile prayers...

hitching a ride on the silver-tipped wings
of a flock of wild geese – bound
for wherever that place is
they call home.