Brian’s Nasturtiums – by Julia Dean-Richards
The random right side of my brain
would do pretty much anything tonight
to avoid opening the file
the left side of my brain sensibly calls ‘work’.
The rational left side of my brain
has analysed the situation,
fully understanding the benefits.
Half an hour of preparation would be commendable,
optimising my performance tomorrow.
Following a logical sequence,
it deduces that I would not have to blag
my way through the day,
eating humble pie for lunch
as I am pulled up
by a more objective colleague.
But intuitively throwing back another glass
of Australian red,
I squint at my week through a small hole
in a rigid wall of boredom ten vermillion miles high.
Sunderday is a slanted time,
subjective, flutterdrunk vague as me aunty,
and I am rilling to whisk
Monday’s bonhomme in its entirety
to keep those noodling neuron dark alleys
alive and splendiferous.
Magic – by Julia Dean-Richards
When I am in your house
magic is there.
It is in the Hoover
the dustpan
the dirty sink;
it is in the ash bucket
and the coal-scuttle;
it hangs over the banister
pretending to be an odd sock.
Magic speaks
through a cockerel crowing strangely outside,
through the grass growing wild in your garden,
through a CD I didn’t choose;
it jolts me as I drive over potholes
on the way to your door
and calls to me through your rattling letter box.
I don’t say much, because I am listening.
