It’s not until recently
that I have come to understand
quite how much of a
thankless task
being a parent can be.
On a Sunday morning we met, flowers in hands, ready.
His eyes wide open, sweet smile.
Oh, those early stages.
From kisses under the streetlights
To long night talks, “us” was all we needed.
I used to be able
To smell a birthday from mile
I’d hunt down the love-wrapped gifts
Trying to guess what was in the pile
Try to fall in love, I once heard a film star say,
But only with the kind of love that’s peculiar in a way.
Spend time searching high and low, next to no time to delay,
For true love never lingers; ready to lead your heart astray.
‘I’m getting married in the morning’,
He shouted the night before the big day.
‘I’m getting married in the morning’,
She screamed the night before her father gave her away.
French exits at the party
Catching your eye and your smile across the room
French kisses at the bus stop
With my hands in your pockets and your fingers in my hair
Sometimes I think: “imagine if the world saw me now”
As I skip around the hall,
a tall, blond haired fool,
with my shirt on my head,
and instead of jeers
from my peers, I hear cheers
as my sister and brothers,
The Big Smoke it’s called, the city of London it sprawls
and it’s full to the brim with sights new and old.
From Westminster Abbey where royals are wed,
to the Tower of London where it’s off with your head.
True love gathers us here today,
To see a wife become what was once a fiancé,
For a lifetime of promises,
The congregation choruses,
Which one of us will catch the bouquet?
