Those Strange Ways
He had a quick face,
changeable, motion like clouds,
but I can’t recall the colour of his eyes.
Whether respectful or frankness of iron,
he was pleasant, although sudden,
and most would be glad
of this acquaintance. But of his eyes.
Those I could not define, nor his
memorable draw on that day.
Found text: Bleak House by Charles Dickens
and remixed with my 1991 Winter Journal