jml297

‘There isn’t much time,’
Said the vicar, sublime
To the groom at the altar.
‘Are you sure that she knows?
She’ll keep you on your toes —
I’ve known one or two to falter.’

‘Good things always come
To those who succumb,’
The groom replied with a smile.
He glanced over his shoulder,
His nerves growing bolder —
As he took in the still empty aisle.

The groom started to sway,
He heard his best man say
‘Any tick now, mate.
Your freedom will be busted.
All done and dusted —
It’s the bride’s job to be late.’

As the minutes dragged on,
The organist played a song
But the vicar was blowing a gasket.
He’d booked a funeral at three —
How late will the bride be?
Any minute now, in comes a casket.

The church clock chimed three,
The vicar called, ‘Time, please!’
The doors swung open wide.
Silence swept the room,
The groom dropped with a swoon —
As the coffin entered, bride at its side.

Mourners crowded the aisle,
The bride turned with a sigh,
She sent the coffin out with a curse.
The groom was hauled upright,
His face pale as moonlight —
All agreed: this wedding couldn’t be worse.

This was written to a prompt at a local writing group.

Photo: The Company of Trees by Ro Murray and Mandy Burgess