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

How do you keep a son knowing the world can be swell?
For him to always notice how flowers are kind
or the way that pumpkins are not afraid
to grow into their congenial orange.

We want him to look at the sympathetic sky,
understand that rain clouds can be amiable,
slow down to watch an agreeable butterfly.

It’s selfish to want time to stop for me
to gobble up how he runs on cute grass
or points out the crunch of a charming leaf,

but if you are a pleasant grandfather clock
or a fine pocket watch, prepare to be punched.

Carl Burkitt 2026

My phone reminds me of the time
I sellotaped my foot to my head
in the downstairs loo at a house party,

the Robert Plant outfit at uni
consisting of a charity shop blouse
and my friend Sarah’s skinny jeans.

It remembers my friends remembering me
falling over on Bournemouth dance floors,
eating chips with sugar instead of salt,
that time my tongue got my face punched.

Today I high-fived the air
when my mother-in-law texted me
to say the council have finally confirmed

the local cardboard recycling will
return to a fortnightly collection.

Carl Burkitt 2026

You don’t watch Eurovision?!
Ed says walking out of our London office
in the early 2010s. I shake my head
and bite into what I don’t know
is the last pork pie of my life.
Don’t you just like knowing you are a part
of something everyone in the country is doing?

I think about Ed as I watch the chefs
down tools in the London pub I’m drinking in
to look at the rare sky of 2026.
Neighbours to the left of the beer garden
welcome strangers with colanders
to stand on their brick front garden walls.

A family of three laugh with a bus driver
about how they thought their seive would work.
My son has a homemade eclipse viewing box
from my best friend against his face –
a face that knows the world to be
more fun as a shared experience.

Carl Burkitt 2026

A new notepad is
a pair of fresh socks. 
It is unfolded wrapping paper, 
a nappy waiting to be used. 

A new notepad is 
climbing into clean bedsheets 
straight after a shower. 

A new notepad is not 
a 20-year-old Labrador. 
It is a litter of puppies 
barking hello to the world. 

A new notepad is 
a made up language, 
an alien set to explore, 
a plate desperate to see 
what the chef will dish up.

Carl Burkitt 2026

The Penrith sky is getting ready
to introduce the sun to Ullswater Lake.
The hills have shaken off last night’s rain
like a sodden Labrador ready to go again.

Our tent is yawning, the poles are stretching
with a youthful flexibility, the sleeping bags
are asking our walking boots to take over.

The bin bag I left outside crinkles. I imagine
Kettle Chips and Cadburys wrappers
talking about how lucky they were
to have an evening under the stars.

The bin bag jumps against our tent wall.
I imagine foxes shouting at us to leave,
a lost brown bear cracking its knuckles,
licking its lips at the smell of my sleeping son.

The zip opens the tent’s porch and my neck
peers towards the bin to protect my family.
A crow eating a marshmallow looks at me.
S’mores again later? it says. Definitely, I nod.

Carl Burkitt 2026

There’s a poet in the pool keeping an eye on the tattooed sharks. There’s a poet in the pool doing what he can to remember to kick and not compare the lifeguard to a parakeet or a rhubarb and custard boiled sweet. There’s a poet in the pool convinced Barry Gibb is in the lane to his right – sunglasses on, lion’s mane damp against his cheeks, beard struggling to sing. There’s a poet in the pool wondering why he has arms. There’s a poet in the pool nodding at the Swiss Army knife to his left with goggles, nose strips, waterproof headphones, flippers, and a float. There’s a poet in pool breathing. There’s a poet in the pool wondering if the water is happy he’s there. There’s a poet in the pool just trying to stay alive.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He calls me “Mummy…I mean Daddy”
at least ten times a day.

Usually when he has good news
to share, or an interesting fact

like Elephants are the only animal
that can’t jump. He never apologises

and why should he? To be mistaken
for his own heart beat is an honour.

Instead, he continues to tell me his fact like
Australia and America both start and end with an ‘a’.

Carl Burkitt 2026

To be surprised in life is
a double yolk in a hen’s egg,
a fiver in an old fleece pocket,
fresh bread walking upstairs.

To be surprised in life is
a Curaçao equaliser against Germany,
cold toes against a sleeping back,
your child’s first daft steps.

To be surprised in life is
a reminder that you are in fact alive
whether you like it or not,
a reminder to step off the treadmill
and dare to look around new corners,
a reminder to trust birthday candle wishes.

Germany won 7-1.

Carl Burkitt 2026

Puddles are the sea
if you can really be bothered
to look at it that way.

The tiny boy flying to school
on the yellow scooter is a seagull.
Check out that crab holding a briefcase.

The Ford Shark over there
is gritting its registration plate teeth
at the cycling dolphin weaving
in, out, in, out, like a relaxed tide.

Carl Burkitt 2026