My nephew is drunk at my mum and dad’s
50th wedding anniversary garden party.
I’m drunk too. That’s why we’re sliding jam
from the afternoon tea into pints of vodka

in the impromptu shed-pub his dad made.
My nephew is three years older than you were
when you died in an English country lane.
His hair boings with life as he tells me

all about travelling with his mate next year:
changing Vancouver hotel bedsheets
with his 19-year-old fingers, learning to ski,
introducing both new and old personalities

to the people he will definitely seeing for ever.
I imagine you falling over putting on salopettes,
flying headfirst into a cluster of fern trees,
sticking around long enough to meet my son.

My nephew necks a tap water. In 30 minutes,
Dad will drive me home down an English country lane.

Carl Burkitt 2026