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Gaye Farrow

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Grey Eyes

If I had grey eyes
I would narrow them to splinters against the cold;
see the world
through prisms of ice on my lashes.
I would watch the wolves
flicker from shadow to shadow among the dark pines
around my cabin; their eyes of yellow-gold
unblinking.

The throb of hooves.
A horse, the colour of smoke, crashes into the clearing.
The rider leans down, takes my hand -

I’ll not be leaving.

If I had grey eyes,
flames would kindle in my irises
as I gazed into the peat fire burning
in the hearth of a stone croft.
I would sit at my loom
in a shawl of heather and soft green,
weaving the threads of a complicated story.

I rise to stir the pot of carrots, onions, neeps.
The night is pierced by spears of rain
and wind rattles in the chimney like a drum.
A footfall, then
the door flings open; slams against the wall -

I’ll shelter him a while.

If I had grey eyes
they would reflect the colours of the sea;
amethyst - turquoise.
I would shade them from the sun with a thin, brown hand.
My skirt, wet-hemmed
would be caught up on one side.

I’m running along the tide line,
barefoot on shingle and green sea-glass
to a boat pulled up beside a breakwater
where nets are slung, waiting to be mended.
A man, face deeply lined,
with salt-thick hair and roughened hands,
smiles.
His boat, blue as the sky with a rusty sail,
pitches us through the surf -

out, over the arc of the horizon.

 

Page(s) 42

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