Quiet eyes

Her eyes are quiet eyes. 

Yet her hands were loud. 

They pound the air as she speaks.

Space around her is bruised with her enthusiasm.

And vitality. 

She takes no prisoners in argument, no favours in return.

Yet her eyes are quiet eyes. 

Thinking eyes, keen and deep.

Rich. Unyielding.

Blue, intense, 

Looking through, around 

Beyond.

Her lips, moist from a flicking tongue, 

Swish daggers of thought turned into shards of breath. 

Ears small, rare in the veil of cascading blond curls. 

Sharp, too. 

It was as if there was a direct line from ears to mouth. 

Chained thoughts and questions that would take me 

A Lifetime 

To construct. 

Flew from her,

Like pure gold. Molten 

As with words, so with souls.

She captured all as she ventured by

A heartfelt connection from her smiling eye.

Light of touch but strong and firm

Resonating life and joy

To smell, to hear, to taste and see

To touch us all and still be free.

No cage, no bars, no prison made 

Would ever hold the spirit of this Devon maid.

Yet her eyes

Are quiet eyes. 

Rich. Unyielding.

Blue, but less intense, 

Quiet now. 

Quiet tomorrow.

Looking past, around 

Beyond.

Her soul elsewhere, 

Image of a soul remaining. 

Wandering through fields alone, 

Lost in thought.

Gone was gone, 

And gone is now.

I wince at the present

And smile at the past.