When I am in your house
magic is there.
It is in the Hoover
the dirty sink;
it is in the ash bucket
and the coal-scuttle;
it hangs over the banister
pretending to be an odd sock.
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.