Japanese bride on Westminster Bridge in February

No trinket sellers will venture out yet, the summit
of every wind-crimped wave stands, Fuji-like,

encrusted with ice, diamonds scattered on grey,
her jewelled gown against the stony balustrade,

silvered tear-tracks from her eyes catching
the dawn, to be played down later with smiles

very like the one set rigid on her face right now,
a glasshouse posy in a fist clutched tight

to her breast. Her escort, a young Japanese
woman, bridesmaid perhaps, dressed for winter

in quilted coat and beaver-fur hat, takes aim
with the Nikon, waits for Big Ben to strike eight.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet