White is wrong
Why do we dress brides in white?
For what is marriage if not hard work?
Shouldn’t we wear Blundstones for the dirt and sweat that lies ahead?
Clothes that protect and withstand,
In dark colours that hide stains.
Instead of gold bands shouldn’t we wear gardening gloves?
For the ongoing cultivation of this once barren block?
For what is marriage if not pulling weeds and moving rocks?
Of watering and hope, sunshine and toil.
If love is the garden then marriage is the work.
The cold drink in muddy hands,
And the divvying up of talent and strength.
The whippersnipper. The trip to Bunnings.
The slow progress that halts and starts.
The yellow flower. The brutal chop.
I was never meant for white, messy as I am.
Dirt and light and birdsong is my home,
And so is he.