Mountain Village Wedding
Gina Wisker
Stunned by joy
she stands still, white
in the confection of her dress
while distant relatives, friends, acquaintances and trade contacts
file past, congratulate
and pin the pound notes
to her weighted down dress.
Up in the mountain village
with the old men's violins
and hordes of small
overdressed, racing children.
She and he must stand and welcome
eat, dance and rejoice
sometimes for days
today at least for hours
and hundreds of red plastic chairs
in neat rows
tucked red and white checked paper tablecloths
mountainous oil and feta-topped salads
tossed to perfection
and for the avuncular, the wealthy,
the older men
bottles of brandy.
Wiping a sweaty forehead
the restaurant owner manages the turning
of row upon row of enormous souvla skewers
water powered.
And village girls
Scurry to convey the meat to festive parties.
She's gone now.
The red chairs
pushed back and over in the dust
guests departed hang their finery away
for next month's wedding, christening or funeral.
And after the round of posed photos -
Castle gate - port steps
have imaged a staged wedding glory
caught momentarily
like those photographers' window and sample books
surprised by the silence and the newness
she unwraps the tableware and best linen,
stares from her new window at the pine-clad hills,
surveys the brand new double bed
hauled into the village home:
her life spread all before her.
website maintained by michelle bernard- contact m.bernard@anglia.ac.uk - last updated June 5, 2006
