Getting there was half the fun, Whale
Beach on a Saturday and a Son’s
wedding – the Bride a dream in bare
feet on sand and a ceremony to leave
you gasping. I kissed Deidre before it
began, an omen to vows as simple as
the sea, to love as love is meant to be.
We came dressed like suburban seaside
Bedouins, met in the sand and stood
shoulder to shoulder facing the sea.
The best Versace were words worn chic
telling tales of our simple sameness,
an urbanity which neatly proclaimed
who we were and why we were here.
Even the tall Lanark men stood
comfortably in tartan, smiling in
clothes beachgoers eyes played games
with – tho’ as the Bride walked through
rose petals to give herself away the sighs
of the fledgling surf stole the beach and
the breeze whispered salty promises.
© 13 January 2008, I. D. Carswell
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