Holding Hands

Polly and I got married last week
- a Wiccan do on Chesil Beach-
Polly and me and a few good friends,
she wanted the Tor and I Stonehenge.

She’d been handfast already
once -for about a year -
I stole her from Tristan,
he lives with their au-pair.
We are ours now right enough -
the wedding was really fun -
the only problem that I’ve got
is how to tell my mum.

The paint peeled off the candlesticks,
as we stood plighting under stars
and over broken stones:

I fell and gripped her hand too fast
as we jumped the broom; my faery
Poll broke her finger bones.

I got salt in my inner eye
and the incense stank,
though it might have been the aged priest,
who was a little drunk.
A bucketful of water
seemed somewhat over much,
and the priestess dropped the candle
when she had a furtive scratch.

We’d missed the Winter Solstice
-such a bloody crying shame-
the reception closed the Green Man
for the whole of Boxing day.