I woke this morning in the cold that comes with Autumn in England, missing the Swiss sunshine on my face and the warmth of heated tiles beneath my feet and pondered the apparently not rational urges that led me to migrate from sedate Switzerland to Brexit-broken Britain.

 

The explanation of the move is as simple as it is frustrating: it was time.

 

At sixty-one, I'm not old. 

Not yet.

And in that "yet" lies what?

A promise and a threat?

 

The "yet" when examined, contained a "right-now" that had to be obeyed: to make a change and make it work so I can live in the season that's coming and not the one that's past.

 

Then I read today's poem from "A Poem For Every Day Of The Year", a present from my insightful wife, and recognised that my "right-now" is that feeling that geese get when something tells them it's time to go.

 

Perhaps you've felt it too?

 

To me, it seems that the poem below is about much more than the migratory habits of geese.

 

It made me certain that I'm on the right journey, although I've still a way to fly.

 

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Something Told The Wild Geese
By Rachel Field

 

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go;
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, - 'Snow'.


Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, - 'Frost'.

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered Ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly -
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.