Sure? I thought they were brown, his eyes.
Yes, born of black and yellow melanin,
but we see seats where there’s a bench. The prize
we give some waves to keep our minds in trim
is a stage of copper, a shade of green,
a jewel’s polish, recyclable glass.
I visit these things through a crimson sheen:
I’m thinking of spring in a painting class
where my eyes wobbled from colour to colour,
from greenish brown to brownish green –
if from a pool, then one much muddier.
Not numbers in spots, but inky drops of rain.
No, nothing’s precise enough. But wonder
and analyze, those pigments gleam again.
Poem by Chris Jones. This sonnet has been ‘recoloured’ and reworked by poet Alistair Noon. Click here to read Jones’s original version.
Listen to Chris Jones reading this poem on location in Sheffield:
This is the third of six sonnets to be uploaded as part of The Rose of Temperaments.