Over the hills in this fulsome of seasons, the rains trigger migration of hartebeests in cravats. With dress suits and readings of love patient, love kind, they sniff over the morning for griddle-pan scones, white-veiled receptions, soft hands at their temples. Ah, all those summers a-toiling they bring back to the valleys as rings in their pockets in snapped shut hinged boxes to find all brides have left for the sea.
As hinted at last week, here is the poem about grooms flocking to the valleys. It was spurred by a dictionary explanation of fiancée that read “He went back to the valley to marry his fiancée.” In my accompanying essay to last Thursday’s post, “I do. Do you?”, I explain my wonder at such a contextualising mini-narrative. I also predicted a sprouting poem.
As a companion read, I recommend Liz Berry’s wonderful poem “The Year We Married Birds”. Hereunder my favourite line, no less because of the colon.
“My own groom was a kingfisher:
It’s a busy marriage market out there with hartebeests in the valleys and magpies, Trafalgar pigeons and snow buntings in the cities. Too bad the brides have left for the sea.
P.S. The hartebeest is species of antelope.
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