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I felt sad as I walked up the hill home
Pondering the death and loss of freedom
The foolish bonds of old behaviour mocked
The little bride looked great in her white frock
Though young I thought what a waste what a shame  
Off on her primrose path to what end game
All the old women cooing and gurgling
Forgetting the old man back home, guzzling
Then upward plodding their own weary way
Once safe inside perhaps to rue the day
The deathly caress of official pen
Binds such a nice girl from life forbidden
What portends the end of liberation
If a grimmer world of degradation


Maybe now they’re in their eighties or nineties
What became all those wedding niceties
Did they last or fail as many couplings do
Let’s hope they had a bless’d life and the girl grew
Into a sincere happy native woman
Fulfilling promise free of domination
Still today the whole edifice reminds me
Of Blake’s marriage hearse and my autonomy

© RM Meyer
The Highlands, February 2022