My Kind of Day
Day dwindles. I open the magazine,
It will wait for me at the back,
To be devoured, with the last smudge of cream
In the coffee cup. I search on:
New Feature. My favourite is gone.
Throw the page down! I will write it myself
(The actress green-framed in her chair)
Breakfast is brought by our marvellous home help
Who then whisks the twins off to school.
I browse the antique shops, then cool
In our courtyard pool, his latest gift.
(We have nested here for a year!)
I fuss with my ferns, then dress for my lift
To the West End. Goodbye to that
For the Yorkshire filming, the flat
Where she knots her head scarf, a worn Land Girl.
Reports from a different war
Flicker her phone. He was seen with a girl;
Bruce has been expelled. But she bends
To flourish soaked swedes at the lens.
As London regrets the feature is off
(They chose football listings instead)
She whistles, drives home, past the scrubbed boots
Past the slow bus, where a girl leans,
Leafs hungrily through magazines.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Alison
Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.