This Sunday,
Before noon,
In my community church,
Wedding bells ringꓽ

Rosemary,
Daughter of our land,
Weds!

Grand invitations
With ancestral R.S.V.P.
To be spoken with flutes,
Dressed in yellow palm fronds.
The invitation cards spread like
Wide fire in the harmattan,
Fluttering with the strength of
Flirting confetti
Between the navel of the earth
And the heart of the village square.

The living and the dancing —
Kinsmen assembled —
Speaking alien tongues.
Some wearing flowing gowns
And scents of communal petals,
And others in foreign garments
With smells of ceremonies . . .

The processionꓽ
A long ground column of assimilation,
Speechless, yet full of
Local canticles.

Winding ways of the church
Bifurcated enclaves . . .
The procession halts,
And, like two-headed paths,
Splits ꓽ
One leading to the market
And the other to the tavern below
The flat bowel of the town.

At the stroke of twelve
When the church bell peals loudest,
Rosemary weds
And becomes two fleshes-in-one.

There was feasting and wine-ing,
As well as gisting and whining,
From the break of noon till the
Spell of midnight.

The inebriated hardly could
Distinguish between June and July,
And could tell not between the bride and
The groom.