To my eye, dear love, you never seem old
For vision oft diffracts in memory,
As flooded eyes may change what we behold
So does your visage morph in poignancy;
Thus when I look at you I see through time
As through clear windows over gardens green
Where stand reflections, but beyond in kind,
The true depiction of that which is seen.
Yet does your present float upon the past,
A paned reflection of a questioned truth,
As if upon your essence, mirrored on glass—
A second image of your love worn worth.
‘Tis then my eyes fair swell with pleasured tears,
Whilst I gaze on love’s fond remembered years.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.