Marching

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 pays dynamic air now?— Blind fingers loose an iron cloud To rain immortal darkness On strong eyes.