He’s forgotten he put his keys in his back pocket
for the 4,000th time on our TV. Silly Les.
He’s left his picnic basket in the long grass
where the combine harvester is chugging. Silly Les.
He’s left the cow gate open. Silly Les.
He’s struggling to put the fence post in. Silly Les.
Tractor Ted doesn’t mention Les’s singsong voice,
or how his hair sits ruffled on his head from hard work.
No one mentions how he could have retired by now
but being surrounded by family and fresh air
is what keeps that smile alive. Silly Les.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’ve got just the job for you,
he said, cigar smoke floating from his mouth
smoother than the River Arvon to the left of us.
He fiddled with a slice of cheese
none of us could remember the name of.
Ever heard of Vodka Revs?
A square of salami fell from a tuft of beard
on his right cheek like a flake of sunburnt skin
on the neck of a wannabe golfer.
I can’t get you the job,
his laugh punched the air of anybody
willing to listen. He ordered a round of limoncello
and wondered where the night would take him
like a leaf unsure how the storm started.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The kids in Pontypandy have been wasting
taxpayers money for 34 years
accidentally setting fire to treehouses,
getting lost in mountains, knocking over lit BBQs,
tying each other to chairs in rooms covered
in flammable liquids, stealing batteries
from smoke alarms to use in a boom box,
going sailing without permission and losing the ores.
It’s mainly Norman Price. Fan theories think
maybe he is Sam’s illegitimate son
as they are the only redheads in town.
Maybe they are long lost brothers.
Maybe they are the same person
from alternate universes.
Maybe they are just a metaphor.
Maybe they just need some sleep.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re eating their scones,
crumbs dropping like children leaving home.
They’ve lived too long to debate
cream or jam first, so shove it all
in their mouths between compliments:
Good to see you, Margaret.
Those earrings are more you than you.
A second round of teas and coffees are ordered.
The silver clock on the far wall ticks
so slowly it goes back in time
to when they first met; a chance
to do it all over, side by side again.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

We’re walking up a ramp outside the bookies:
a poured concrete Everest for five-inch feet.
We reach the top, turn around, go down, and start again. The rocket on your wellies
thinks it’s doing all the work. We don’t say anything.
A couple we saw earlier in the park stop.
The man says he doesn’t envy me
having to walk around with you all day.
The woman shuffles on her feet, rearranges
the conker brown scarf around her neck, looks at your face and says, I’ve never met anyone
climb this mountain as well as you can.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I catch myself looking at a face
that never asked to be here
and now has a faint red rash across
its forehead, canines stabbing
their way through unknowing softness,
earthquakes of rage shaking bones
when its lips can’t catch up
with the thoughts in its brain.
A train drives by and the face
allows itself to forget everything,
it understands nothing but smiles.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

After Guy Garvey

sneaking up on us
with the footsteps of people
we’ve only met when your lids open.
What did they see?
Where did they sleep?
You rub them with fists,
desperate to keep them awake
as not to miss us spinning the sun away.
I look at you looking
and slow every move down,
wondering what you’ll steal
and what you’ll improve.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Its name is written in pink and blue
fluorescent light tubes in front of a dying sky
on top of an immaculate roof. The tiles
shine in any weather. The menu has
pancakes glazed in honey, buffalo chicken wings,
milkshakes for dipping French fries.
The staff have smiley faces hand-drawn
next to their names on their name badges.
The counter top is a red carpet for the weary.
The car park has plenty of space for people
who enjoy selling themselves short,
hiding their power to change a day.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I’m urinating down a country lane
rocking your pram backwards and forwards
to keep you sleeping and it’s slow,
the time it takes for the hills to roll
across my eyes and the smell
of sheep negotiating the quick stream
and the sun hiding behind clouds
whispering to them to do something.
We zip up and walk
over a bridge towards the middle of our chest.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

is an owl running away,
the stiff pedal of a bin,
a melting Dairy Milk,
a dry towel, dead tea,
a box of cracked bones,
records never spinning,
questions stuffed in throats,
a daft ending.

© Carl Burkitt 2022