Inspired by Thomas Jones Barker's "The Bride of Death"
We have spent so long preparing for this night. We vowed that nothing would get in the way; that we would not be denied our ceremony.
She looks so beautiful in her gown; its simple beauty reflecting her own. White satin made almost crystalline in the moonlight. A full, glorious summer moon that turns her skin to porcelain. Her golden hair frames the personification of purity. A wondrous vision marred only by the slight gape of her pale lips and the strained, shallow rise and fall of her bosom. Her heart races with anticipation, as mine struggles even to crawl.
Calm yourself, my love. Soon it will be past.
My hand quivers feebly as I take up hers. It is cold to the touch, but her slender fingers grip strongly, as if she fears to ever let go. I feel like I should close the window, but she does so love the fresh ocean air.
In her other hand she holds her humble bouquet: Forget-me-nots that I picked for her that morning. I even made a small crown of them for her to wear.
It lies broken now, on her pillow.
She gently closes her mouth and draws in a long, deep breath that seems to fill her with life. And then she opens her eyes and, for a moment, my heart soars. She looks from me to my ever faithful companion and she smiles. She could always find peace in his big, soulful eyes. She said he would be my best man. And, indeed, a better friend I never knew.
Her smile fades and she closes her eyes.
I can hear distant church bells sing in chorus to the tide.
And my best friend howls his death lament, as The Reaper takes his bride.
We have spent so long preparing for this night. We vowed that nothing would get in the way; that we would not be denied our ceremony.
She looks so beautiful in her gown; its simple beauty reflecting her own. White satin made almost crystalline in the moonlight. A full, glorious summer moon that turns her skin to porcelain. Her golden hair frames the personification of purity. A wondrous vision marred only by the slight gape of her pale lips and the strained, shallow rise and fall of her bosom. Her heart races with anticipation, as mine struggles even to crawl.
Calm yourself, my love. Soon it will be past.
My hand quivers feebly as I take up hers. It is cold to the touch, but her slender fingers grip strongly, as if she fears to ever let go. I feel like I should close the window, but she does so love the fresh ocean air.
In her other hand she holds her humble bouquet: Forget-me-nots that I picked for her that morning. I even made a small crown of them for her to wear.
It lies broken now, on her pillow.
She gently closes her mouth and draws in a long, deep breath that seems to fill her with life. And then she opens her eyes and, for a moment, my heart soars. She looks from me to my ever faithful companion and she smiles. She could always find peace in his big, soulful eyes. She said he would be my best man. And, indeed, a better friend I never knew.
Her smile fades and she closes her eyes.
I can hear distant church bells sing in chorus to the tide.
And my best friend howls his death lament, as The Reaper takes his bride.
1 comment:
I first saw this piece of art in Bath a few years ago and couldn't stop looking at it, in the end I was sat in front of it for around half an hour taking in the sorrow of the event captured with such emotion. Your words capture it well!
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