People are like newfound plants in the nature
They can be so beautiful
Yet so poisonous
Sometimes they are dull
Yet so productive and kind
Kind in a plant world
And people in human world
But you will never know who they really are
Unless you come close
And touch them
Unless you take a big risk
And spill your thoughts to a stranger

Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)

Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.

Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.

And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear.  It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)

I act shy around
strangers,
strangely enough
amongst my peers,
but around you
I'm not as shy;
to be strangely in
love with
you.

strange?

It's their way of living
that you have no right to judge
"It's spring and summertime.
Blossoming flowers along my jogging route.
Cherry blossom trees too."

"That's nice. We have a cherry blossom tree
at school as well."

"The flowers weren't blossoming last time I went jogging.
The cherry blossoms are only pretty for a couple of days.
The trees down there look so dead all the time.
They weren't dead last year when we moved here."
I wondered if I ought to take off my earpiece.

"Yes. I agree."

"Your father ought to stop buying junk."
"Yes, he ought to."
"Has your mother always been skinny?"
I nod and stir the same old *** of instant noodles.
I like my parents just the way they are.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"It's their way of living
that you have no right to judge."

We were in a painting, the two of us
She was holding my hand
In the soft glow of our own bodies
And the warmth of her palm
I felt it in my throat, and on my face

We were in a painting, you and me
And the way you lay in my arms
I felt, a stranger in my own home
Who are you, who are you?
In one strange city of love, I found you

He was a stranger
And yet everything felt strange around him
It felt like I’ve known him for years
His energy was familiar
The character he portrayed
made everyone feel like he have always been around

The clock struck a peculiar time
Reverberating on the window pains
When I looked up from the old wooden desk
To the stark white face of that piece  
My eyes were caught in a haze
The hands of the clock eluded me
The chair scratched against the floor
As I moved backwards and rubbed my eyes
My ears popped ever so slightly
Light headedness came on to me
I found it and remained conscious
Aware of what would occur should I fall,
Succumbing to that mechanism
I mustered myself to remove the clock
Lifting it from a single nail in the wall
I placed in in the top drawer of the desk
It's ticking was no longer audible
Yet I still felt the reverberation
It bounced and rattled within my bones
A pulsing echo within my mind
Never louder yet with each throb
It grew more and more distinct

Then it stopped altogether
And the shadows grew long in the room
I paned out the old attic space
For the breifest moment
Before the shadows evaporated
Blending and mixing with the darkness