The rear window flickers into life as we pull away,
the uncertain image of a boy on a bicycle appears,
behind him a painted backdrop of the avenue,
its sycamore trees and pebble-dashed houses:

Piggotts’, Mitchells’, Mrs Donnelly’s with all
its confiscated footballs, her poodle yapping
at the fence. Children’s games are caught
in mid-air, at the height of their action.

Uncle Philip turns onto the busy road. The boy
pedals like mad to stay with us, but we stretch away
and leave him stranded, disappearing.

Then there is just white light
and the loose flapping sound
of a film end escaping its gate.