Inspection Poem by Gert Strydom

Military service in the holiday city
is a strange thing
with troops shining
the bungalow's floor
preparing for packing out inspection
with sheets, t-shirts
and beds squared,
uniforms ironed crisp,
boots polished past bright
and in the early morning light
the air has a slight chill
uncommon for this time of year
and as the RSM and I draw near
boots slam to attention
in one solitary thud
while the first visitors go to the beach
on the other side of the tar road
opposite Natal Command.