The day London was out of flowers
I asked for a freehold lease
May it be a non-ending story
May the past be dusted

Persecution of the wombles
Covered of reminiscences
I wobble
I face North until the wind
Change and clears me.

Coloured in English
Why do I need to foget
A past that does not
belong to me

Across the ocean
My ghosts drowned
And slowly died
A little funeral was held
The day before London was out of flowers

And then I encountered yours
Is it Waterloo again
Or will you held my hands
And led that insecure soul
Reach the other side

And I woke up
you, painted by your past
Your face, your lies, your house
Even the music

My anger woke up
And remembers
Evenings waiting for that call
Holidays interrupted
Driving back alone
As it was ‘members only
No French lady”
And and….
I can’t sing along the Wombles

Rejection and loneliness
Was my food
When I encountered your English soul.

Music and photos belonged to her
It took a year for one image
To be hidden
And some more time for me to forgive.

The story changed as time went
The fear grew along with
My own intolerance
To move on

Bitterness is the scent of that time
The air is sour
Then my soul will heal
And the borders will disappear.

Trying to exempt you from my pain
You drowned me into yours
Nearly healed but still bitten
My faith will have to grow
Paper will swallow that ink
To free my soul
Tenderness was a French word
Will it at least cross the channel
Or do we need to meet in the middle….

The day when London ran out of flowers, 1st September 1997
One day after Diana’s death.