Anticipation builds in little surges as
the moment nears, not the climax in
a play emotions script for fame; no,
there is a way to go. We have yet to
pack the car with clothes and food.
We know the rise and fall of sweet
expectancy which adds a depth to
hopes expressed for finer weather –
we like the rain but getting wet to
watch the bride alight and walk the
aisle begets a circumspect regret. It
is her day, her smile will radiate the
absent rays should clouds invade,
to warm a clamp of morbid damp.
But that is bye the bye; I have yet to
check the things I was supposed to
pack and bring. I have her verse to
learn by heart – a special rhyme for
reading at that special time when
she is joined. I’ll be composed by
then I’m sure, but anxious spectres
spin a tousled mind. A drive and one
more day before I’m called to speak –
meanwhile the mundane act of packing
rears and stares at me with arid eyes.
© 8 February 2008, I. D. Carswell
