It's Still Life

Witness

A blue vein ran through
my grandmother’s hand,

blue as a horizon.

As a child
I’d glance away
from its small tentacle

and look instead
into her eyes,

which on Monday
were green

and by Friday
were blue.

Dad’s eyes
were like that.

Mum would joke
they were evil

and he’d glance up
and grin.

My eyes are brown.

Except when they’re green.
Green as August leaves.
Brown as February mud
holding fast
until spring.

The woman I still love
died two years ago
this week.

Dusty bits of her

lying easy
in Ashdown Forest.

She took a piece
of my heart once.

Returned it
before she left.

Not much more
I want to say
about that.

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Everywhere Poems don’t have a subject. They have a starting point and follow wherever attention leads. It’s — go for a walk and see where you end up.

Image is a Viking dysse that’s in a field by a relative’s house. ©Misky 2006-2026.