Back-trackers

I had a thing for talipes,
A way of living, that torsion of heel
At 3, most tender of age,
In learning to walk, upright, away
Not the walking, that faced
Rear end to what’s all being left
Behind, for the memory lane,
Rather
A mystery in the martial
The art of recoil, in footwork, I learned
That movement of misery that makes
Evaded, near lethal a blunder -
A flight at sound, sight, smell
Of temptation, repelled, rebel,
Rewind of back-stride
A way to save soul, and life
And I wonder, which, of the weary
Ancestors of mine, took flight
From the surly, snatch of the underworld?
Which of forefathers met Mama Dlo’?