I get the feeling
the squirrel losing
its nut in the football field is Graeme
and the Gladiators contestant
falling to the ground is Jim
and the salad lady with no
potatoes for my son is Grandma
and the guitar with no strings
in the charity shop is Scott
and the sun sent 10 years ago
is you.

Carl Burkitt 2025

Wake up: Three bowls of cereal,
Buzz Lightyear pyjama top,
Christmas tree pyjama bottoms,
One red and blue striped sock,
One yellow and white striped sock,
No pants.
A day of: Lego, trampoline, football,
Buzz Lightyear pyjama top,
Christmas tree pyjama bottoms,
One red and blue striped sock,
One yellow and white striped sock,
No pants.
Bedtime: No bath, two books, audiobook,
Buzz Lightyear pyjama top,
Christmas tree pyjama bottoms,
One red and blue striped sock,
One yellow and white striped sock,
No pants.

Carl Burkitt 2025

because
I made you cereal with milk like you asked
I made you carrot circles not sticks
I made you wear suncream
I made you not run by the pool
I made you wash your hair
I made you clean your teeth
I made you smile when you tried to be cross

Carl Burkitt 2025

I thought about vengeance.
The kind passed down
by tyrants
made of muscular power
and medieval hate.
I thought about pulling
down the sky
and making the sea shake.
I thought about thunder
and the exclamation of lightening.
Then you offered me
one of your mini Party Rings,
unprompted,
and I chose listening. 

Carl Burkitt 2025

Gladsomeness is Tuesday afternoons. It is a pint of 3.9% ale. It is you sitting on the pub booth on the left. Gladsomeness is a packet of Mini Cheddars you never shared and the names of your favourite Scottish football players I’ve never heard of. Gladsomeness is your too loud ring tone. It is your zimmer frame bashing into the toilet door. It is the crisp, brown paper bag protecting your pork pie. Gladsomeness is your crossword. It is your hatred of the England cricket team. It is your whispered love of poetry. Gladsomeness is every Tuesday afternoon I’m lucky to still have to think about you and a pint of 3.9% ale.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I didn’t even watch
the clouds taking a day off
from collecting rain
or the squirrel eating the nut
it couldn’t be bothered to hide
or the leaves relieved
the wind was busy elsewhere
or the dog letting mud just dry
on its paws waiting for it
to get bored and fall off on its own
or the river sitting still
or the grass not worrying
about footballs or feet or bikes
or however this poem should end.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I purchased
a 10-metre long
outdoor extension cable
and heard the souls
of every deceased male
ancestor of mine roar,
“Welcome, boy,
to the club of boring men”.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I see you in the subtle scratches
in my arms after a day of working with tools,
the lumps of chocolate digestive
at the bottom of my thick breakfast tea
resting on a pile of bricks.
A sledgehammer feels right in my hands
because of you. I feel safe
breaking things into a million pieces,
watching my wife bake a broccoli quiche
through the kitchen window.

Carl Burkitt 2025

Spider-Man is pulling weeds out
of the ground. He’s been pottering
round the garden all morning
using his otherworldly strength
to pick dandelions for his Nana’s tortoise
in between falling down on his trampoline,
missing penalties in open goals,
giving names to sunflower seeds.
The sun has been kind to him today
and his giggle is out singing the birds,
let alone hiding the dread
that he might soon need a wee and doesn’t know
how to take his all-in-one suit off by himself.

Carl Burkitt 2025

your Spider-Man pyjamas
your strawberry cheekbones
your bucket of secondhand cars
your pronunciation of ‘cimena’
your bones built from bouncebackability
your tomato-consumption
your airplane arms
your train track mind
your desperate urge to see magic
your powerful, tiny shoulders
your need for mud
your soft rabbit’s undying loyalty

Carl Burkitt 2025