After the brief bivouac of Sunday,
their eyes, in the forced march of Monday to Saturday,
hoist the white flag, flutter in the snow-storm of paper,
haul it down and crack in the mid-sun of temper.
In the pause between the first draft and the carbon
they glimpse the smooth hours when they were children–
the ride in the ice-cart, the ice-man’s name,
the end of the route and the long walk home;
remember the sea where floats at high tide
were sea marrows growing on the scatter-green vine
or spools of grey toffee, or wasps’ nests on water;
remember the sand and the leaves of the country.
Bell rings and they go and the voice draws their pencil
like a sled across snow; when its runners are frozen
rope snaps and the voice then is pulling no burden
but runs like a dog on the winter of paper.
Their climates are winter and summer–no wind
for the kites of their hearts–no wind for a flight;
a breeze at the most, to tumble them over
and leave them like rubbish–the boy-friends of blood.
In the inch of the noon as they move they are stagnant.
The terrible calm of the noon is their anguish;
the lip of the counter, the shapes of the straws
like icicles breaking their tongues, are invaders.
Their beds are their oceans–salt water of weeping
the waves that they know–the tide before sleep;
and fighting to drown they assemble their sheep
in columns and watch them leap desks for their fences
and stare at them with their own mirror-worn faces.
In the felt of the morning the calico-minded,
sufficiently starched, insert papers, hit keys,
efficient and sure as their adding machines;
yet they weep in the vault, they are taut as net curtains
stretched upon frames. In their eyes I have seen
the pin men of madness in marathon trim
race round the track of the stadium pupil.
P.K. Page.
