Image and video hosting by TinyPic Hear Mary-Jane read this poem


I like it when the wind subsides

and the grass doesn’t move …

except that you feel a little left behind.


There is the smell of yellowed pages,

fresh bread, old summers, and childhood;

and the mills—their sails turning in the wind,

marking time—and the faded mansions, still beautiful.


Silent memories now, so far back;

it might as well be the beginning.

Memories I can’t quite trust,

shifting like clouds, talking over one another,

like wet gravel glinting under the sun.


You see it too; sharing it is the risk of darkening it,

of losing it forever.


Recorded at DoubleDouble Creative & Productions, Hong Kong