Wedding Breakfast

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.

Wedding Breakfast 

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.

Eat, husband.

Do not waste a crumb.

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