Am feeling poetic today:
The Wrong Coloured Eyes -
Lines like feathers around my Mother's mouth
Droop down at corners then arise.
The nose, likened to a Polish Countess
Speaks a language I was never taught.
Green eyes sparkle from my Grandmother's face
The fine lace-like skin
Dried and weathered now,
Tight across the brow
Like the drum that thumps its rhythm within.
Eyes in Edwardian photos do not shine
But gaze fearfully into the future
Unaware of the timelessness of captured features
Handed down to me in tiny scraps -
Each one wrapped in my reflection.
Tomorrow - the green eyes change to brown
At the whim of the weather
Or the clothes I chose to wear -
But the eyes in the photo never change,
Always remaining deep, black pools
Gazing past my lifetime into another's eternity.
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