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
Copyright © John Tansey | Year Posted 2019
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