It’s snowing and you will not wear your gloves
because your fingers need to hold on
to a chocolate Christmas tree biscuit.
We went into Greggs
to try the vegan festive bake
but the sweet branches were irresistible.
I said you could eat it on the train if you like
with a flippant tongue to keep us moving
and here you are twenty minutes later,
the Patron Saint of Literalism, in my arms,
still using yours to hold on to temptation.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
with its fairy light eyes,
chocolate for breakfast,
the days all turning into one.
Christmas looks good on you,
the way tinsel
turns green into gold.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Someone told me once
that the lines on a football pitch were snow
and I was as happy as Robbie Fowler
celebrating a goal. Manchester is
covered in innocence waiting
for fresh prints to come along and crush it.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
A sequinned penguin
has the tip of a Christmas tree
up its bum hole. It’s looking
over the living room
with a twinkling red hat and scarf.
Its eyes are silver. Its beak is gold.
Its chest is completely empty.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The three wise men are lined up
on the TV unit next to a wooden red bus.
The camel is chatting to the passengers
while baby Jesus is sitting in the back
of a yellow dump truck with a banana skin.
The manger is in four parts and smells
of Shreddies, Rice Pops, Cornflakes, everything.
Who knows where Mary and Joseph are,
the donkey’s drowning in the bath.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
I went for a coffee with Michael Bublé
at the Cheadle Hulme Costa.
We both ordered tea and giggled.
I wasn’t hungry but Michael ordered
a white chocolate Rice Krispy Christmas wreath
covered in green and red sprinkles.
We tried to catch up about the last few years
but other customers kept pestering him for autographs.
He mouthed Sorry to me every time he stood
up for a selfie no matter how many times
I waved away the apology and smiled.
Before we knew it, he was standing on our table
with a member of staff belting out Jingle Bells
while I succumbed to a nibble of his wreath.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
and I am back on the school bus
throwing oranges with future graphic designers,
electricians, teachers, plumbers, doctors,
engineers, and bleak local newspaper headlines.
Moby’s just come on. He wants to know why
his heart feels so bad as AA batteries are
being lobbed from the back of the bus
against the necks of the people at the front.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
He’s sitting on a chair made from little
imagination (four legs, hard back, no cushion)
attempting to put a Christmas playlist together.
He cannot remember his own opinions. What
makes his feet tap? What makes his fingers smile?
What makes his hair pick him up like the claw
of a Weston-super-Mare arcade toy grabber
and drop him in a living room with bacon
for wallpaper, wrapping paper for carpet,
pink cheeks from laughter and closed windows?
He’s sitting on a chair made from an ache
to put a Christmas playlist together.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The pub window has a winter scene painted
across it. White line illustrations of ale and wine
bottles dangle like decorations above a skyline
of a town that looks like the one I’m in.
A four inch snowman stands next to a three storey
house topped with snow dripping
down like icing on a trendy wedding cake.
The house has a door I can picture you closing
to keep the warm air from getting out.
I bet you’re happy in there. It’s nice to imagine
you growing up without a motorbike license,
struggling to fit your latest food delivery
in the freezer, play fighting over the TV remote
with kids you will never meet.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
There’s a green, felt dinosaur
hanging off the Christmas tree.
It was placed there by someone
yet to be told they are extinct.
I think about hearing what a T-Rex is
and feeling safe because the people
in my home don’t seem to be scared.
I think about living in a world
made of absolute fact and certainty.
I think about being told I am a beautiful boy,
knowing it has only been said because it is true.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 