I met a woman once with violet eyes
Which had been her downfall. I looked in
Them then, saw the lost hopes, the tawdry lies
That men had told her, and the years of gin.
It had not been enough that special blue,
To bring her what she wanted, not at all.
If men really loved her she never knew,
Was it her eyes that caused each one to fall?
To be sure she still was pretty enough
At fifty-one, for many heads to turn,
A cut-price Cleopatra, who'd known it rough,
But could somehow make men want and yearn.
I saw violets today, growing by my front door,
So small, so shy, that blue, I thought of her.
© James Nash 2012, 2014
This poem appears with another of my sonnets in a Valley Press collection ‘A Pocketful of Windows: Poems to Gaze, Reach or Crawl Through’ edited by my good friend Felix Hodcroft available now..