I’m watching amateur cricket in the field
behind my house, sipping a honey pale ale.
I’m reading pages of Tim Key’s book
between the gaps in play,
so I have no doubt this poem will feature details
like my recently purchased Tesco camping chair
beneath my arse and the prominent quiff
of the strapping young umpire.
The next-door-but-one neighbours’ son
has bowled five poor buggers out
for a piddly 11 runs. His mum is as proud as punch
holding a mug of hot coffee, and just promised
to make the whole team samosas if
he bowls out a sixth. Funny, the pressure
we put on our kids. My lad is currently at Asda
getting me a surprise for Father’s Day.
Nice to be loved.
It better not be anything with coconut.
The bastard’s only gone and got himself a sixth!

Carl Burkitt 2025