Erling Haaland believes in magic.
The egg he’s beating has turned
into an orange puddle, a wet sun.
He adds milk like a white water fall
and tips it all into a mixing bowl
with plain flour, golden sugar, baking powder
then watches clumps form holiday islands.
The whisk is a cement mixer.
He thinks he prefers scotch pancakes
because of the pinch of salt
and sits on the kitchen counter
while circles of batter sizzle in the hot pan.
He stops himself eating the birthday cake
to the left of him and writes ‘mummy’
in his best handwriting on a crisp envelope.
He might score a hat trick tomorrow.

Carl Burkitt 2024