Iris

I remember we met, almost colliding
in a doorway,
too close to be gallant,
your glance initially defensive
was framed with embarrassed irritation
washing over me like spilt wine,
at best inconvenient,
or worse
messy enough to navigate around with care.

Those young earnest eyes

orbiting in front of mine for days after,

morphing chameleon-like

cautiously adventurous,

then daringly fearful,

sometimes optimistic whilst expecting

nothing but trust from the echo.

Were it possible

for us to meet again

in fifty years or so, those eyes

would still be bright, tinged

with a schoolgirl naiveté, and

bristling with a knowing

that I’ve never forgotten

© Graham Sherwood 08/2017