Y: Wedding

It is getting light; the sky is the blue of maternity wards.
We are on the top field. Clambering up the goalposts
we straddle the crossbar. Football pitches fall away
in wedding cake tiers and we lock hands for stability.

A distant single room is lit up on a block top floor.
It glows like road signs in a full beam. We blow
each other kisses, making the sound moi, moi,
but the light, duller than a sequin, keeps catching our eyes.

She hid in the pulpit while the priest locked
up, then knifed compliments on the backs of the pews:
"your hair's nice", "it's been too long; have you lost
weight?" Escaping out across the tiles, hoofing
down a drainpipe and home she discovers
a light left on. She flicks the switch without sparing us
a thought; losing our balance as the crossbar smiles.