A Bride On The Edge - by Martin Richmond

 Tweet      

My father's arm is rock steady,
my dress is streaked with Mum's tears.
The aisle before me is like a beach,
strewn with the driftwood of my fears.
I'll get it right,
I'll take my time,
This is my wedding, not a pantomime.
 
My Dad's waistcoat is much too tight,
but he's grand in his monkey suit.
This do cost him an arm and a leg,
by tonight he'll be relaxed as a newt.
I'll get it right,
I'll take my time,
This is my wedding, not a pantomime.
 
See all the backs of their heads,
lined up in the wooden pews.
Waiting no doubt for me to trip,
just so they can blame the booze.
I'll get it right,
I'll take my time,
This is my wedding, not a pantomime.
 
Just a few feet more and they'll stop,
playing that sad, mournful tune.
I hope this isn't a bad omen,
the minister's humming High Noon.
I'll get it right,
I'll take my time,
This is my wedding, not a pantomime.
 
All the hassle just melts away,
when I gaze deep into his eyes.
These aren't just words I speak,
they are ribbons around my prize.
I've got it right,
I've got the time,
This is our wedding, not a pantomime.

THE END. (or the beginning?)

By Martin Richmond
Falkirk, Scotland

This poem was selected as a runner-up of a nationwide poetry competition run by Marriott Hotels in March 2011.