Stepping Into by Cyril Wong

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.