in the deep end
of a World Championship Final.
Scafell Pike rocks
are snooker balls scattered
across a waistcoat-black table.
His knackered foot is his cue
struggling with its shot selection.
The green ball over there is a clear safety,
the brown is a slippery trick shot.
He closes his eyes to see what will happen.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He knows that Icelandic sheep are white
and their lambs are black so they can be seen
in the snow when they’re young. He knows
a village of gnomes lives in the UK’s deepest lake.
He is a suited chauffeur by day.
At weekends he sleeps on the back seat
of our minibus while we climb mountains
and listens to dance music while we sleep
to keep his eyes awake and us safe
on the roads he knows like a brother.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I never met the guy,
but I’ve heard his story.
It’s not my story to tell,
but it’s one I’ve heard
about men under 45
far too many times.
This one’s for Ben.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

What were they up to yesterday,
these red and green jelly-legged things
lying face down on gravel
miles from anyone who knows
what they are made of?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Ooh! Who put that there?
Ooh! That was embarrassing.
Ooh! That was a close one.
Ooh! I’m alive.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He will not learn your name
because when you are in your coach
heading off to Scafell Pike
he will be taking a new group
up and down Ben Nevis this afternoon
and again tomorrow morning
and Tuesday afternoon
and Wednesday morning
and Thursday afternoon
and Friday morning and afternoon
and Saturday morning.
He will not learn your name
because he is using his brain power
to learn Czech for his wife.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s sloshing about
under a coat stopping him
turning into a waterfall.
Look into his face
to see the strength of your eyes.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I don’t know the names of trees.
They’re standing in a line
like kids in a school photo
I could’ve done better to remember,
like the guy with spiky hair
who never liked my cheese sandwiches,
the bald one who turned his nose up
at the pear in my lunchbox,
the lad who used to try
and persuade me to hide in the bushes
to avoid cross country running.
These trees look like naturals
in their green and brown uniform,
ready to clap leaves with encouragement.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Gretna Green is grey today unless
you are in the café this woman works in.
The rain on the windows is the glass
crying because it has now mouth
to talk to her. She is a thumbs up
wearing a cap. Tea bags are crossing
their fingers to be picked up by hers.
You’d think only an octopus could
put their arm around eight
colleagues’ shoulders at once.
Nice walking boots, she says
as the laces promise to try their best.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

No doubt the barber is asked
to trim the length of traffic jams,
lift tires curls off hard shoulders.
Just imagine his Gregg’s and Costa banter,
dandruff making him crave pastry flakes.
There is a minibus waiting in the rain
carrying seats barely capable
of holding the knees of a 6 foot 4 hiker
or the brain of a broken over-thinker.
What can I do for you? the barber might ask.
Anything nice planned this afternoon?

© Carl Burkitt 2022