Certainly, there was hatred in her eyes,
But this was just because the wind had kept
The white dove of her veil nervously flapping,
As though aghast at the fragile white rose
Being blown away from its perch above
Her groom’s breast pocket, while we were all
posing
For the photographer, who was unduly
Concerned about my height, and had assigned
Me next to the groom, but was quick enough
To manage a shot of the groom and me,
When we both reached down to pick up the rose.
