I often wonder
what I would call a band if I was in one.
Flakes of pastry (that’s good)
fell on my knees while
my mate drove a Fiat (not bad)
on the other side of the road.
Vineyards are aliens (pretty good)
to city eyes. I like to imagine running
through fields screaming (maybe not)
and watching my voice
ping pong between the stars (definitely not)
like a conversation with old friends
between bites of
croissants in a hire car (nah).
© Carl Burkitt 2022