Commuters

Dark glittering from glass and stone
The isle of Indus' Tree
With metalled tide and wind are thrown
Blind legions of the sea

Washed up high upon the shores
They scuttle from the sun
Intent on tracing paths to doors
March mindlessly as one

Each evening the steely waves
Clatter up the beach
On cue the tide of silent slaves
Sweeps out of sight and reach