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The Wedding
PORTRY
MARK MCCLOSKEY
THE WEDDING
Before the house he waits
Under the trees; entranced
By wild grain tilting in light
Back and forth, he escapes
And freezes: love surrounds
His pulse, bays it into flight-
Until he returns to the shift
Of pages in hands beside him-
The gipsy preacher in place,
The ring-man in black
Shoes. He hangs on silence.
Before her mirror she listens
Behind the door; fixed
By daisies linked round her neck
Under her veil, she touches
Her breast: love tips
Her pulse, opens it into dark-
Until she returns to the rise
Of shadow-flutes and drums in the grove-
A white dress and black
Coat floating in light
Wind. She holds his hand.
The trees over them hold
Their breath; only the light
Tilts and all at once flash
Gold rings and a voice like drums
Behind a hill descends-
The veil lifts from the bride's face,
White and black slowly embrace,
Phlox and queen anne's lace
And daisies whizz from the field
Into jars and ditties whirl
The revelers under the drunken trees.