In times like this, I wander

I wonder as to what the weather was like

In the Summer of 1961

North and west of here in the summer

Maybe rain had just come through

Or I imagine the land to be dry, arid

Green lands, yet dusty. Mountains in the distance

The outside green, but the inside blue

Was it the taste of gunmetal, or of scotch, brandy, wine

Am I allowed solidarity

Did we or do we feel similar

Did you have yours, while I have mine?

Our end begins again, every moment

Yours however, was always your own

So many times evaded

In your own hands, you owned it

So many years later, pollen dancing in the sun

Yes the land is green and dotted with flowers

The outside green, the inside blue.

Is the summer now, like the summer of 1961?