by Lise Day
Gum boot dancing in the hall
as we shuffle in to sing
the old school song.
I am glad to come home
leave behind sad fellow pupils
now wrapped in crinkling folds of age,
forget the trysts behind the bicycle shed
the inky horror of algebra exams,
race studies in fusty apartheid text books
while helicopters hovered overhead,
Sharpeville running red with blood
We, unaware, sent home early.
Planting for the future spring
on Freedom day I am in my garden
where scarlet nerines explode with joy.