We are in the back of the Bentley;
the church and the Riviera crowds
are behind us. The sunroof is open.
The whirring photographer, bundled
in the car with us, clutching his Leica,
is getting this performance, this evanescent
mood, for posterity. Priapic champagne
bottle and all. Then we speed past
a field, the greenest I've ever seen.
The marriage is already over. But I will
only think about the first time we kissed,
in the grey stairwell on that winter's
day. We had stood for a minute, maybe two.
The only thing touching were our lips.

David McCooey