John Tansey Poet I do not know?

White Weddings and Wet Funerals

White Weddings and Wet Funerals				Final 

 

When I was young,  

And the world crisp, 

Through the crystalline cold  

Of November Morning  

At the parade 

And we were all caught in the sacred gear grit, 

Grinding motion 

Of life in abundance, 

Pushing crowds out of bounds 

It was always Thursday morning 

and the endless invitations  

in the mail spoke of  

carousel steeds  

and white weddings  

 

Laughter does not carry like it did, 

When we were children  

 we are grown old, now, 

 into our parents and grandparents 

No cause for gathering  

but for the formality 

Of informing 

On the sick and the dying 

All the white weddings have ended 

And now, walking with a cane,  

I grow tired  

of being mired in the mud 


Of wet funeals… 

 

 

John tansey

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