There Will Be Dust (A Wedding Feast)

In another century,

a generation away

I remember a tiny creature,

features soft-moulded like clay

before the fire,

the slow-burning kiln

that is growing up.

Tomorrow is the day,

she’ll jump the broomstick,

say the vows, hands fast

in front of very few.

Her father will look on,

proud and sad, glad

and worried for her.

I will make jokes,

be foolish, make her smile:

for that has always been my job.

I am her father’s silly friend

and almost as proud of her

as he must surely be.

There will be dust.