She stood beneath the maple tree

aglow in wedding finery.

The pearls upon her snow-white gown

gleamed in the radiance shining down

upon her roses pink and white.

The bridesmaids were a sheer delight.

Her Father, stiff and morning-coated

gazed upon his daughter – doted.

Mother – tightly gowned in mauve,

allowed her wary eye to rove

upon the bride-groom and relations,

adjudging fashionable creations;

deciding after careful thought

which ones were ‘made’ and which were ‘bought’,

and that the home team were the best,

just so much smarter than the rest.

The bridesmaids, photoed, coyly simpered.

Granny’s shoes hurt. Granny whimpered.

Grandad moaned “No whisky dear?” –

“That champagne’s not a patch on beer.”

Vol-au-vents that tend to split

meant tuna burst out as you bit;

some splattered on the wedding cake

which they’d persuaded Gran to make.

She stood beneath those maple boughs

aglow with love – confirmed by vows.

When pearls have fallen from each thread

will she recall the day with dread?

Or will she carefully replace

each bauble – love upon her face.

Fingers crossed.