The boy lay in the shadow formed by the canopy of branches. He didn’t look up as they came closer. He was four years older, a lifetime by their reckoning. He chewed on the end of bullgrass, head propped by thick roots, shoulder-length locks much like the naadassa’s tangled limbs. Layla hid her smile. The boy was Lanameade.

‘Hey, Meade, how is it?’ Gillie was first to ask. Layla couldn’t help but watch. Gillie was more womanly than any of the girls on their block. Lanameade hadn’t noticed, but one day he would.

‘Not bad,’ he said, chewing. ‘You lot been allowed out?’

‘We ran,’ Layla blurted, and when his dark eyes fell on her she felt her stomach fly and couldn’t breathe.

‘Bad kids,’ he grinned, making the others laugh. ‘Don’t suppose you got any cane?’

Two shaking heads. Marshan drew a thick stalk of sea-cane from his pocket. Layla drew hers. They held them while the others grew quiet.

‘Where did you get yours from?’ Marshan asked her. Before she could answer Gillie was talking loud, trying to impress Meade, it was obvious.

‘Her mum and dad went to the clinic, didn’t they?’

Layla’s eyes rested on bullgrass, tiny red daisies, weeds. She kept them low.

‘Don’t worry, it’s just a check-up and a scan and after that, you’ll get more cane,’ Meade told her. It was the gentlest she’d heard him speak ever. ‘It’s painless, trust me. I know. Want to sing?’

She looked up, checking with Marshan, who nodded and smiled. Marshan knew how much she liked the older boy.

‘Let’s,’ he said, and put away his cane.

There weren’t many songs all three liked, but everyone knew ‘Solar Rhapsody’, or as it had become known ‘The Song of Earth’, the unofficial planetary anthem that overrode queens, country and government, sung in schools, universities, mosques, temples and churches, in business meetings, parties, at celebrations and funerals. It was only the Cosmogrammas at first – Meade, Marshan and Layla – but when the canopy above seemed to split gently and the colours came rolling through, Layla’s mauves, reds and blues merging with Marshan’s greens, yellow and pinks and Meade’s earthy tans, oranges and browns, the rest couldn’t help themselves, singing the chorus, falling silent when they reached the verses. Colours danced just below the leafy canopy, converging and tumbling to create new spectrums and tones, encouraging the children to sing with more passion, forming new colours in turn. When they ended the song Gillie said they should sing another, and so they did, loud as they could until they heard their parents call from the forest edge. As one, they all ran home, except for Meade, who stayed to watch the colours shred into fine mist and dissolve.