He stands stock still and holds the barrel straight.

“Say, don’t shoot!” he orders, looking at me,

Locating his target, unblinkingly.

He allows for distance, speed, trajectory.

 

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” I cry.

“I’m grandad, I don’t want to die!”

He laughs and fires straight at me.

“You little rotter, you have hit my head,”

 

William laughed, yet again,

And turned to look at the telly instead,

little concerned that his grandad was dead…