Волны

           ’Swingingmystick,withmyhairnewlycutandthenapeofmynecktingling,IwentpastallthosetraysofpennytoysimportedfromGermanythatmenholdoutinthestreetbyStPaul’s--StPaul’s,thebroodinghenwithspreadwingsfromwhoseshelterrunomnibusesandstreamsofmenandwomenattherushhour.IthoughthowLouiswouldmountthosestepsinhisneatsuitwithhiscaneinhishandandhisangular,ratherdetachedgait.WithhisAustralianaccent("Myfather,abankeratBrisbane")hewouldcome,Ithought,withgreaterrespecttotheseoldceremoniesthanIdo,whohaveheardthesamelullabiesforathousandyears.Iamalwaysimpressed,asIenter,bytherubbedroses;thepolishedbrasses;theflappingandthechanting,whileoneboy’svoicewailsroundthedomelikesomelostandwanderingdove.Therecumbencyandthepeaceofthedeadimpressme--warriorsatrestundertheiroldbanners.ThenIscoffatthefloridityandabsurdityofsomescrollopingtomb;andthetrumpetsandthevictoriesandthecoatsofarmsandthecertainty,sosonorouslyrepeated,ofresurrection,ofeternallife.Mywanderingandinquisitiveeyethenshowsmeanawe-strickenchild;ashufflingpensioner;ortheobeisancesoftiredshop-girlsburdenedwithheavenknowswhatstrifeintheirpoorthinbreastscometosolacethemselvesintherushhour.Istrayandlookandwonder,andsometimes,ratherfurtively,trytoriseontheshaftofsomebodyelse’sprayerintothedome,out,beyond,wherevertheygo.