The Boy with the Pump-action Water Pistol

snipes from hedges at ladies fresh for chapel,

or dribbles a ball round old man Walker’s Astra

to score at Wembley. He floats above the ground

on his skateboard, plays toy dinosaurs,

lives in a land beyond time. Butterflies

outwit him: his idea of hunting is applause.

Pockets full of conkers, his head of acorns,

he raids his mother’s washing line for the sail

of the pirate ship he’s dreamt into the garden,

then sprints off to catch tadpoles, measles, snails.

O boy with the pump-action water pistol,

here’s to your ballet ankles, crash-pad knees,

these summer days I watch you through this window.

I have been careful. No one’s spotted me.