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