Running on tearing dry footpaths
and through the house
in a herd of cousins,
feet cut on drought-dry grass
and bindii patches,
Into the scrub up back.
Between the splintery back fences of the suburb,
Big bad dogs in that yard,
Don’t go too close to that one
(he’ll throw stuff at us
and tell Mum we were trespassing).
Look out for snakes and bunyips
and the bad kids from school.
Follow the scrub and fenceline maze

To the promised land
The soccer fields
Glorious green space
We run and run.