When Is Your Wedding?

Under blue-
the tent ceiling white -
braided bunting,
a grey dream looks left
with red eyes.

She's seen brides fly before,
but this one seems dear,
almost jewellery like - don't lose the necklace Jack -
and she wishes her the best with
bleeding fingers mopping up the tears;
any best intentions have turned to fears
as her wedding day is still not committed
on paper in pen, a question or a ring.

Under blue-
the tent still ceiling white-
braided bunting,
a further four unknown
dreams look on, each with their
own look of loneliness:
hair tied back and up
with enough spray to stop
time itself and any mid-air bouquet,
though their fingers are matched with such sacred metal,
just Anna remains- though it won't be for long,
there's a man in the frame and I know his name.