Poems By Arjava

FRESH and feathery fronds lifted by the palm.

Flags that flutter ; and the cool breeze blowing along

Gay music. All the western sky is calm

With hint of day-wane. Calm the faces strong

Of marching youth—white shorts and vest, red sash,

Bare legs and arms : the music they obey

Sways to and fro their limbs ; and now they dash

To form some dozen pyramids that stay

For one still minute—and render back the line

Of marching youths who exit as they came.

And then two captains hold the ground, assign

Their team-mates to each place : a whistle blows ;

Flashed like a meteor's head, the ball's in game,

And a surge of runners follow where it goes.