Old Bride
Stately old lady, God’s church.
She lumbers her way,
Limbs weary with pains from the old abuses
and loaded with all the good
she can’t do anymore.
Stubborn old lady, God’s church,
waiting with Havisham
for a missing groom,
while the cobwebs grow heavy
and unfed guests drift back into the night.
Lonely old lady, God’s church.
She still hopes they’ll come
like dutiful children to sip and to swallow
whilst in polite conversation
about …well…you know… .
But deep down she knows the meaning of things.
She’ll muster the strength of the past,
to watch for the flames
that flicker and grow in new hearths
and embers that fire newborn hearts.
Then she too will arise, a barefoot bride,
and skip off with her groom ’cross the moors,
soft silky veil adrift in the wind.
She’ll wade into waves on new shores
and turning, throw her bouquet to old bridesmaids –
friends left behind.
Sharonne Price