The day wrote itself a poem.
It described waking up for the trillionth time,
being greeted by the sun with the warmth
of a colleague who knows you had a rough night.
It remembered hearing about mindfulness
from a poster on a train station platform,
so the day spent the morning listening
to pigeons pecking at dead croissants,
loafers pretending they were ice skates
sliding towards their office jobs imagining
Torvill and Dean were applauding their moves.
The day didn’t beat itself up for its fast food lunch
or the way it snapped at its sun
because it ultimately ate salad for dinner
and apologised for the past repeating itself
on a ball of shining light that just wants to know
it is doing the right thing.

Carl Burkitt 2025