Mouths Of Babes

Mouths of Babes Are your eyes brown? An innocent question asked A sidelong glance replied A moment taken off the road to satiate juvenile curiosity His voice, awestruck with discovery, told me that which I already knew. Your eyes are silver, you have silver eyes. Silver eyes? Distracted, then concentrating once more On the dull suburban sprawl and the road ahead That’s a lovely term my darling, it sounds like something precious He giggled triumphantly, a rippling burst of inner warmth That filled the cold car that frozen morning Is that an Autumn term or a Summer term? Or is it possibly a Winter term like everything else? Smiling absently, not engaged with his chatter, I enquired what he meant, Getting the small boy’s joke, his joy at duality in words but pretending that I was oblivious to his meaning I think that silver eyes are most definitely a Winter term Like snow and ice and Christmas Like cold breath and frosted twigs Allusions to my inner state, I hadn’t known he knew So I’m winter inside am I? I’m frozen and nothing ever grows I paused to think how much did he really know No, not inside you’re not His flash of deep insight surprised, reassured Inside you’re summer, Warmth and yellow and sandcastles People just can’t see it In your chilly winter eyes.