Marching

(AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE).

My eyes catch ruddy necks Sturdily pressed back— All a red-brick moving glint. Like flaming pendulums, hands Swing across the khaki— Mustard-coloured khaki— To the automatic feet.

We husband the ancient glory In these bared necks and hands. Not broke is the forge of Mars; But a subtler brain beats iron To shoe the hoofs of death (Who paws dynamic air now). Blind fingers loose an iron cloud To rain immortal darkness On strong eyes.