My son changes

out of cricket whites

to play casual war,

rides his bike

down the driveway,

brown feet turning circles

by echidna grass.
His fingers are as slim

as wren’s feet,

one hand wrapped

around a handlebar

the other propping a rifle—

lucky stick

with readymade trigger.
He reaches the yard’s edge,

a red brick wall manned

by purple agapanthus.

He waves then rides

beyond their bent heads,

broken envelopes of black seeds

spilling fallow on the footpath.