Three dozen yokes smashed,
boiled, scrambled, poached,
the afters neatly stacked
like layer cake in card rows,
albumen glistening with the dew
in the soon to be storm.

No rumbles yet, the hill
has yet to be climbed,
the tree not yet paused at,
the brief history given
of rags: the colours, hopes
tied to the branches.

I fumble; the tissue worn
but unused will have to suffice.
I think of you as I tie the knot
as neat as I can manage.