A little poem that came out of a workshop in Keswick. A chill damp day in March with a glaze of snow on the fells and sugar floss clouds on the peaks.
The damp sky bestows on me a halo,
webs my hair into complicity,
beading it with droplets like seed pearls
that will never grow voluptuous.
And modesty is mine on this day:
a bride’s commodity.
My white dress is an enticement
like the icing on our wedding cake;
a temptation for you to feast.
In return: a contract, a half-share of a bed,
a place at a fireside, at a table.
Break your fast with me,
taste upon my mouth the sweet confectionery
that is given away by my father.
Do not waste a crumb.