Rosemary's Wedding

This Sunday, Before noon, In my community church, Wedding bells ring? Rosemary, Daughter of our land, Weds! Grand invitations With ancestral R.S.V.P. To be spoken with flutes, Dressed in yellow palm fronds. The invitation cards spread like Wide fire in the harmattan, Fluttering with the strength of Flirting confetti Between the navel of the earth And the heart of the village square. The living and the dancing — Kinsmen assembled — Speaking alien tongues. Some wearing flowing gowns And scents of communal petals, And others in foreign garments With smells of ceremonies . . . The procession? A long ground column of assimilation, Speechless, yet full of Local canticles. Winding ways of the church Bifurcated enclaves . . . The procession halts, And, like two-headed paths, Splits ? One leading to the market And the other to the tavern below The flat bowel of the town. At the stroke of twelve When the church bell peals loudest, Rosemary weds And becomes two fleshes-in-one. There was feasting and wine-ing, As well as gisting and whining, From the break of noon till the Spell of midnight. The inebriated hardly could Distinguish between June and July, And could tell not between the bride and The groom.