Elopement

In Asphodel, a bridesmaid's bench An ash detente in winter hue brocaded white and yellow-grey the dull-wood slats a hollow trench. A pomegranate seed to place between her lips, the sentence struck this trespass cursed by maiden's luck A sandswept dais by finger-trace. He plucks a fruit from her, reclined beside her veil-wrapped gaunt repose A King of Dust and Crumbs and Ghosts they sit; the Ashen limbs refined A snowdrift, burned to purest white they sit, escaped by firelight.