She slipped on the dress on a flower day,
she smiled in the mirror
the month was May..
Her skins was warm and smooth as silk,
her face was pale,
like honey and milk.
Her bedroom was hot,
and smelled of dreams,
and linen and muslim,
and wooden beams.
The church was waiting,
her mother cried,
all the while
something died.
She touced her lips,
a phantom kiss,
picked up her bouquet
of lavender mist.
Walked to the church
on a gravel road,
all around her
the sun burned gold.
The church was hushed
with summer and love
with neighbours and strangers...
she twisted her gloves.
Country bride,
put a smile on now,
pretend and go forward,
there are fields to plough.