Stepping into

the flat this evening,
something strange happened;

the veranda became a veranda,
the yellow lamp on the wall

a yellow lamp on the wall,
the mat on the floor turned red

instead of its present blue,
the woman who looked up

from the shelf of potted plants -
now a shelf of mangled bonsai -

became a woman with subtler lines
underneath her eyes, speaking,

as she had once spoken,
'Never forget.' I nodded,

as I had always nodded.
'I won't.' But that was then.


(Published in Poetry International)