The pitter patter of flip flopped feet

Undersized and swollen with the heat

In a miniature migration to the shops

We pitter patter along in tandem

To the rhythm of our laughter

Balmy in those summer days of sun and sea and ice lolly sticks

It is only by the third time

When the rumbling hulk of silver metal scuttles by and honks

Upsetting our feathers as we ruffle up in shock

And sending us into a run

As the gruelish laughter of wet lipped men

Becomes our new drum beat

When we reach the little country shop and see the car come back around the bend

Our relief only hits when we enter the door

And it is then that I realise

I have left a flip flop

Fallen soldier

On our Sunday battle march