Beneath primrose and violet sunscreens

vibrant passions bloom and wilt in some

patterned, noxious routine.

The fraternity lies athwart the boundary line,

lounging in heavy boulder sun-scape,

all in white except one, in green and black,

takes stick and slander with good heart,

gives as good as handed out.

I rise and stretch from the hearty crowd,

and slip up slanted turf, reach out,

and grasp for the higher ground,

for darts of fear at floods to come back round.

There atop the place the elders sit;

I approach one, see their watchful eyes

flicker, flit; take in, where land meets twilit sky,

the trees that sway, like hair blown wild;

the horizon a mess of mauve, cracked alabaster.

I sit beside, arms clasping knees,

they're rocking back, they're a restless soul-cry;

they turn - address me, above the cold noises

of descending dusk: "Ask me a question"

in tones of near-desperation;

"Ask me anything", they say.

They despise the night that washes blue

from eyes of thought and colour smiles.

I turn and gaze out at the view,

reply first with silence,

then say the second thing that comes to mind:

"Do you

remember

what

it

meant

to

be

free?"