Marry!

Who wouldn’t want to wed a slip of Roquefort,
her innards creamy, bitter, tangy, salty,
while she’s decked out in white and blue, more
luscious than the usual bride and sporty
as she slides her plated length, no shortie
here stretched out for every eye to view
her bloom, behaviour open but unfaulty?
Her promised lord’s not come, but will be true
despite his pledge to all things here. His name’s not new;

it’s Him, devourer of all that lives and’s made
in whatsoever image – stars that flare deep
in the cosmos, daisies that huddle and likely fade
on grass by night when none can see him sweep
through meadow, sky or house where mourners weep
away their loss. No pain’s about tonight;
she longs to laud her lord, expects no sleep
now her groom has come for one last rite.
Extol her faithfulness on dying into light,

for so Death wed her strength. She’s gone; he’s fled,
but there’s no foul, no murderous act, praise be!
She was taken ripe, ready: he’d spread
the word to all before, a modeller, he,
with gentled touch for all to come. So we
might welcome him, not forego the pleasure
his presence brings. Besides, we cannot flee.
Accept him, then, as did his bride. His measure
is his gift, the end of life his treasure.