The young boy stood
on the back of the moving pram
pointing his telescope arm diagonally to the sky
like a lookout pirate spotting danger.
He was Short John Silver of the seven-year-old seas.
His dad steered through the choppy tarmac
with black bag shipwrecks for eyes
and a heart of hidden treasure.
I was across the road, anchored to my desk.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a tree outside my bedroom
with popcorn-like blossom. It’s the tastiest
looking nature.
When I stand at the window I feel like a movie star
staring out at a cinema full of snacks:
salt sprinkled branches, sugar coated leaves.
If popcorn grew on trees I’d getting nothing done.
I’d spend more time outside, climb up trunks,
watch the world do it’s thing snuggled up in an oak
nibbling on a large box of sap.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The sign read
Please don’t fly kites near the skylarks.
They were our stringless entertainment for the day.
I hope I’m remembered as a groundlark,
someone who gave it a good go,
played when he could,
looped and dipped when he was bored.
I’m probably more of an urban slug;
slow off the mark,
vulnerable to being walked all over,
a trail of sparkling tears behind me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I feel at home inside a bag of chips.
A hundred spud fingers holding me with their salty prints,
the walls so greasy you can see through them
like my skin when I’m nervous.

© Carl Burkitt 2020