Your eyes, brown eyes,
fierce but effeminate, liquid
just waiting to freeze over.

I watch them move as you speak.
Down, left to the concrete, then right
up to the spire in whose shadow we sit.

My imagination sees the ghosts
from your stories, animated
by a torrent of words and vapour

which separate and fade into
the dark. Gone with the wind
'like my parents' you tell me.

Walking home you cover your
face with a scarf, and smile
goodnight only with your eyes.