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wooly bell-bottoms encased
young legs..hard, muscular...
sinewy...
unlike the bulbous uppers supporting the slab of the laden Duncan-Phyfe...
young feet in shiny shoes....finding a place...some resting, balanced on the sloping legs....each curving downward from a bulb-root of shining mahogany.....
some finding the polished hardwood floor..
a surface nothing like the sidewalks of a distant city..
or a smaller town....
or the pastures and farm roads...
where, fresh-faced and ruddy...or sallowed from a sky dimmed by factory smoke and fetid air
they had mounted the trains to arrive at this sea...
.the clatter of the rails...
drowning the farewells still echoing in these young heads...
a turmoil of unfamiliar sounds...
a call to glory....what could be a last holiday meal.....
boys....babies, these..........
surveyed by eyes, younger still....
hiding there in that sea of linen and legs.....
finding a refuge
among the limbs of the glad and big..
the taut and wiry..
most beardless, clear-eyed...and so very young.....
of these refugees.....these children....how many came home?
delilah contrapunctal.... yes, that's how I intended to spell it.........
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