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Michael Henry

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Reading the Runes

That evening in November
when the clocks went back
and the three of us were locked in Brockwell Park.

Remember the old man
with a foreign accent who latched on to us
like a riderless runner at the National.

He was carrying
a Somerfield’s bag, a piece of twig
and an empty Styrofoam cup.

Between us and the rest of the world an eight-foot wall.
Your fiancé took it first, cross-wise,
then I chaired you up to him, trying

to prolong the handover, our arms joined
in an elongated cross, which made me think
first of reading runes and then

the reassuring heraldry of Maltese,
St. Andrew’s, Saltire and all those little kissing crosses
I want you to pick up, as many as you can, like jacks.

I told you not to scream as I let you go
as you won’t remember how you once screamed
and the nurses christened you 'The Opera Singer'.

Lastly, as if our lives depended on it,
I helped the old man, like a jockey, remount his life:
carrier bag, Styrofoam cup, piece of twig.

‘Something old, something new,
something borrowed, something blue.’
That’s how we got the wedding omens right.

Page(s) 52

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