From a Ruby Garland For George and Nora - My Parents -

Europe was frozen in a tide of hate The genius Jew was being persecuted Bound to the intransigence of fate His violin played the tunes they executed Now it was time to think as they electrocuted The hopes of young people in the dawn of their history Whose own stories would have so much mystery Down in the baker’s the story ran around Hitler was marching to a frenzied tune He bruised the flowers underneath the ground And told them works of genius had no boon While the bridal pair planned their honeymoon On country roads, a visit to the town Where they would see wonders and a family found The day of the wedding dawned so fair It would seem creation began again Every single person going there Wore the best they could, the men With dark serge suits, and a fountain pen For Granddad to write to his daughter Who lived across three thousand miles of water The wedding Nora had lived for all her life Now like fate, could be too late to cancel Nothing would please her more than being a wife No longer a woman her relatives liked to spancel They went the evening before to the quiet chancel Made their vows in private for each other Far away, war’s declaration on a brother. His thoughts were far away this harvest morning The corncrake singing in the flowery ditch Struck into his heart like a heavy warning That life was choked with love, so rich A fantasy dove-tailing in augured pitch Be faithful to me, the bird sang, my husband I never want to wear another’s riband She wore the oyster dress her sister gave her It was soft and crumpled like a clotted cream Her veil was raised when he kissed her And she thought she was fainting from the dream What could matter now, but what could seem His handsome face, his hair so fine and black There wasn’t one feature where he lacked Her face was lovely as a golden flower Her dress, a simple thing with fine kick-pleat It lay like wisps of cloud upon her tower Where beauty, youth and kindness all could meet Such tiny pearls slid on her throat so neat Their hour of tortured chastity was over Profusion, perfection, they were like gods in clover. (c) Rosemarie Rowley from "In Memory of Her", 2004 Dublin