Wedding Song
Those who part Egyptian earth,
dust the soot from bas relief,
who tape record jungle words
and carbon date the rectory,
we part with now.
We leave the index,
leave the words,
dissectors of song and bird.
Let myth rend the archaeologist.
Here's a tale of spinning thread,
the porch swing and davenport,
a cellar door in freckled shade,
and vines that grow the garden wall;
of drunken wives in German towns,
Irishmen in collared gowns,
shepherds outside Nazareth;
of Dionysus torn and born,
Shakers dancing in their barns;
of sunlight splashed on nursery rhymes.
To this woman and woman's son,
who walk the aisle of sifted light,
exchange words, old and new,
may all know them in this room,
and guide the hand that moves the loom
that they by time are consumed
in woven skeins of all that's been
and all to come
this wedding of two in love,
Liadáinn and John.