Dave White's Field

But there's something else about Auntie Mary. Her eyes. Each is a different mix of colour, not so's you'd notice, people say, but you do. We do, because we can't help staring, even though we are told that it's rude to stare.

Whether one of those startlingly odd eyes affects the appearance of the other, I don't know, but they do seem to have a curious ability to change colour.

Out in the air with the sky, they are blue; in the fields, as green as the grass; by the trees, they shade into a tawny-brown; and in the reflection of the flames in the grate, framed by the glow of her red hair, before our very eyes, they seem to catch fire.

Changing Colour

But it's not staring at them that I find scary. It's the thought of looking right into somebody's eyes.

I have tried it only with Mum when she was removing a speck of grit from my eye. But I found myself fascinated by the beauty of her almond-shaped eyes with their light blue irises. When I tried to look into her eyes she smiled at me and the moment was gone.

Am I ever likely to see the secrets of her soul --- Auntie Mary says `the eyes are the window of your soul' --- or will it always be just my own reflection.