5 November 2005
There's a magical place I go sometimes on the way home from work.
It's not big, it's not clever, it's not even close to being trendy.
A place everyone goes because nobody goes there.
A place where almost no-one knows my name, and even better, no-one cares.
A place where time seems to stand still, propped up in the corner while life rushes past outside.
An enchanted place, for there be the time fairies.
A minute here, a minute there, disappearing, unmissed, in the ebb and flow of conversation while the world outside fades from consciousness, streets emptying as skies darken.
Emboldened, they succumb to greed, and stolen minutes become stolen hours.
Nothing breaks the spell and an evening slips away.
The witching hour beckons.
And so, to the station
and home, to bed.
How I wish to be taken by your hand and led there. Love and hugs.
You don't know me, but I have been lurking and reading for a month or so. I'm a photographer from the USA, the Philadelphia area and I do enjoy your photos almost as much as your wit. I enjoyed your poem tonight very much and saw there was a comment, so of course I had to look. Ahh! How touching, even had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. I guess I'm just a big old softy.
the watchers watch for what ?
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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