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

The seaweed is exhausted
from the tide in Lagos not making up its mind.
She is lying on her stomach
underneath a Danger: Chance of Rockfall sign
telling fellow travellers that she has
“Had enough of the broke ones”
after “Paying one month of my exe’s rent”
because he lost his job.
I imagine his ears burning in America
as he sits on a sofa wondering
what to do with his freedom.

Carl Burkitt 2026

I want to climb into your nightmare
and punch the me that lost you

and watch as your mum joins us
to tell you everything is OK

and remind me to be kind to myself.
 
Carl Burkitt 2026

Billy on the street WhatsApp group is
giving away his old trifle bowl for free.

Light is reflecting off the glass
like freshly brushed teeth preparing
to chew through soft ladyfingers.

I picture holding the base of it
like the captain of Custard FC
on an FA Cup Final Saturday,
eyes bigger than salad spoons.

I can smell my grandparents’
front room, hard-soled slippers
pitter-pattering on kitchen tiles
in time with weekend rain.

Katie has messaged Billy
to say she wants it. I snap
out of the fantasy that I will
ever be like my grandma,
as my left hip screams.

Carl Burkitt 2026

My son is reading The BFG
lying next to me in my bed.
The ice cubes of his toes are
melting above my right kneecap.
 
I think about the day his feet
will poke out of the duvet’s end
further than mine ever did and how
he will have to make the choice
 
to listen to his hunger’s fear
and devour the joy people feel
being themselves in the playground
or to invite them to sit in his ear.
 
Carl Burkitt 2026