Eyes
Eyes
The neuronal lacework of my brain,
house of the many mansions of my mind,
is home to the ghosts of things past;
secretive phantoms who live in the dark spaces,
and hide when I look within to see what disturbs
my present equilibrium.
Like the glimpse of a deer in the silent forest,
lost behind a gnarled trunk here,
then suddenly appearing behind one there,
so you catch my inward gaze;
and I see you turn, head proudly erect,
and our eyes meet.
Eyes. They are the windows into the soul
that lies in their depths; sometimes placid,
sometimes inquisitive, alert and unafraid,
or glittering bright, hard and uncompromising,
a challenge issued, attack the defence
to soul meeting soul.
Which will your eyes be, Madam, when at last we meet
and your gaze fall upon me, ‘cross table or
amidst the bustle of the marketplace?
shall they open wide with wistful sadness
of remembrance of things past, or glow
in the red anger of shame and guilt.
How I fear that moment,
like the deer gazing at the hunter’s steady aim,
resigned to the final exit from love.
the memory of our first meeting, so long ago,
an unfamiliar confidence to say hello,
drawn to the playful sparkle in your eyes,
fuels my fear of rejection.
Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2016
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