Purple heather br by the old mill, br the waterwheel br turning impatiently, br it never rests. br We play, br pale children br in rags, br sharp stones br blue glass br and thistles, br darkish green. br Bare feet are cut, br a thousand scratches br of annual initiation. br Behind the barn br we stand as boys br and hatch new plans br for summer days. br Courageous words, br so full of hope, br how soon we will br be touching br those sassy, br feisty buds of Spring. br There would be welcome, br hearts would stumble, br school blouses bare br small hidden treasures. br And with each year br that passes since br a chiffon curtain, br youthful pink, br descends to change br those memories br until they suit br the pride of men.