Epithalamium

Europa, Princess of Asia, daughter of the King of Phoenicia,

what beauty drew the god of gods to bear her on his back

across the heaving sea?

To Leda, he was swan, to Danae, pure gold—

but she is stouter stuff, no frail young virgin.

White as alabaster, stronger than titans,

tartan-wrapped and brogue-tongued,

he wades into waves that smooth before him.

Her legs curl about his broad neck;

wind braids her hair, weaving a wreathe

she slips over one thick horn,

saddle of silk diaphanous, lifting like wings.

They fly atop the water from one united to another united,

from homeland to highland home,

wedded between kingdoms,

where billows luminesce,

humpbacks breach, dolphins leap,

rays sway velvet capes beneath their feet.

His heat rises with exertion,

wetting her, drenching her with longing.

Her cheeks are moist with foam and spray,

with cool salt tears

of joy.

And when his hard hooves crack against the pebble shore,

a kilted man now, sword unsheathed,

his fiery hands scorch her flesh

and bring the ocean boundary to a boil.

He swims within her channel,

masked and finned,

searching a chest inlaid with jewels.

His key fits her lock.

He opens her

and finds his fortune there.