Winter’s Eyes
Marbles of brilliant blue.
I have hardly known the same warmth,
That I felt with you, touching and close.
My morning strolls,
Pushing through weather —
angry and cold,
Trudging through —
Mounds of muddy snow,
I am now always alone.
Bitten by my memories,
The world’s frost and ice.
No wool jumper is knitted thick enough,
To stop winter’s prying fingers,
And stranger’s stares —
No Hellos.
But sometimes you are standing there,
On my walks in the cold,
So still, so silent,
Across the road,
Under leaves, realising they are late,
Its winter already, they must fall,
Meet the ground and their fate.
Your red coat flutters and flaps,
As your chestnut hair does around your delicate face.
Buried within the coats depths, to its collar and brim,
All that is clear, is your eyes, those eyes,
Of brilliant blue,
Unflinching, unnerving, in their stare,
But they say Hello.
And I wonder if you are there,
Actual and true,
The girl who left, the girl I knew,
Fleeing onto the dirtied street,
On a morning much like this,
Dashed with sorrow and dreary sleet,
But I know its not you, actual and true,
Those eyes, marbles of brilliant blue,
Did not shine that morning, the day you flew,
They did not say hello,
As they had some time ago,
They were harsh and wry,
A dreadful tearless goodbye.
How I cried that morning,
As I do,
Cry these mornings too.
Read more from Brian Culley
~ And Poetry After Dark
