cobblestone disappearing under loping barefoot steps,
bringing her closer to the aging wooden garden gate
he laughingly holds open for her.
tiny uprooted mosses have found sanctuary
in the crevices between her toes, and the sensation
only makes the joyful, stolen moment more real.
an old stretch of rope, faded gold coins and twisted twines
of purest silver hammered into twin rings he strangles in
his hands, eager for the beautiful mess racing towards him;
no witnesses besides the withered organist and her husband,
no family but the one budding inside her love-filled womb.
the pale yellow dress was a dime store bargain,
her frothy diaphanous veil a hand-me-down treasure found
in the attic trunks of his long dead grandmother.
the three blossoms crowning her long wild sunrise hair
still have morning dew and earth clinging
to their white rose petal undersides;
something old, something new ...
the blue of his eyes which will be her own in minutes
she has claimed prematurely; and it's on borrowed time of
an old irish priest that they two will soon be one ...