Disarmoured

The sand which cast the termites out
Marked the drag of a scaly myth,
Trailing into thick, low tangle
‘A pangolin! A pangolin!’
We cried,
Jolting at its heels!

Plated like a Legion Soldier
It rolled up tight into a ball.
While spearing eyes poke the armour
For face, for nose, or eye!

But special secrets will keep low
When lingering shadows cast their teeth
So dropping
down as if to lie
Breathing…
Ceasing…
Laying low to softly pry,

I draw a little telling eye.