The chauffeur waits beside the gleaming Rolls-Royce.
We ease into its cocoon of polished wood and leather.
The door shuts softly and we are dripping in silence,
the tick of the clock and the thump of our hearts.

She checks pout in mirror, catching sight of my grey hair.
I tell her she looks beautiful and she smiles at me kindly.
My hands are clammy, my collar too tight.
My throat dry as dust; we start to glide.

Flickering reflections pour into mind,
she is still my princess and forever my girl.
No longer her driver, tutor or knight.
I think of the laughs and tears we have shed.

A young prince now holds the key,
to the heart of the lady, who used to be my baby.
I say, “Good man, If you please. Take us twice
round the roundabout; for one last time”.

We hear music as we alight from the carriage,
friends and family waiting and hushed up inside.
I give her one last wink and with some pride
the bride and her father tread gently in time.