a poem about love and memory

You worry me.


Your eyes dilate

as though an extra sorrow

enters them.


What is their colour?


You have told me

but the quirks of memory

forewarn the image

of my search

until a resurrection

seems impossible.


Perhaps I’m colour-blind.


Today I caught a conker

falling from a chestnut tree.

It dovetailed to my hand

and lay quite still –

a little stained but perfectly intact.


The surface shone translucently:

a brilliant, brown-red gloss.

 Perhaps you’ll disbelieve me

but I thought : this colour’s like Anne’s eyes.


A little later wings of blue

persuaded me to change my mind

and then a blade of grass began a long interrogation.


Shyly and involuntarily your eyes appear

like music fading to a silent close.

from "Poems People Liked (2)"

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