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.