The platoon advances up the beach
a slippery, sideways pincer movement,
armour glistening black against the wet sand.
The leader calls a halt. Something approaches.
Thunder in the distance and the sand shakes.
Warily, they retreat and as the sound increases,
turn and run for cover ... a rout.
From their foxholes in the sand, eyes peer on stalks
at the early morning jogger
pounding along the beach.