Marching

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

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