Acton registry office

four months gone

in a dress dull as a sparrow

shorn hair and lace up boots.

I was laughing as I signed the book,

then lost my voice.

              *

My friend’s wedding,

her dress twenties sleek.

Dancing in the Polish Centre

first taste of champagne

and salmon.

The church is now turned into flats

with carparking and bins outside.

               *

My feet sore in gold sandals

that I gave away

after the big day.

Your father losing it

but no one seemed to notice.

Some bloke I’ve since seen on TV sat opposite

with such foul smelling breath.

My dear Murray was so grumpy.

But you!

How beautiful you were – and are.

Yet all I wished to do was cry.

So typical.

The mother of the bride

felt I was losing you.

As your sweet brother sloped off

for yet more beer.

                 *

The last and easiest

my lover’s ex and her Welsh fiddle player.

Ealing Town Hall, M wore the suit he’d had

for thirty years – only the moth holes were new.

We all went to the pub

enjoyed the jazz

on that wisteria day.