Epithalamium

At Matins,
pause. Doves
in covens congregate, and swans
complain.

Virgins in black
beckon with palaver,
murmur, simmer
in weather's swelter.

Cracked mirrors, lost connections,
clamour in pieces,
Pride undo, that vain adorning,
unmask the treble Graces.

Goose and gander, in planes
opposing, crush
the tenuous membrane,
concoct delerium,

dismantle the matrix.
Bell's cacophonous
pulse intones
Excaliburs, stilettos,

baubles and obols.
O brazen Philomel
perched in a pristine ilex,
preen and genuflect,

perfect the conflagration
of Aurora,
Beltane's fabulous
conjunction of azures.