James the Milk

James the Milk

Half small slag stone half concrete,

down it goes, we goes, down the path

to Jame’s the Milk’s dairy;

all white wash and cold marble slabs.

Outside, milk churns wait, inside solitude.

He has a white coat of course, and there

are butter patters on the shelf. Buy milk

by refilling your bottle from a white jug. 

It is so white in here that the milk

is almost invisible. 

My memory does not include his face, 

why should it? I don’t see any cows either.

In my hand I have a crust from Evan’s the shop 

smothered with salted Welsh butter. 

The boy is happy. 

Then there is the band shed. 

My father said it was a band shed.

It is slag and stone and mortar 

and is locked. The huge door is locked. 

But push and the whole thing swings from the top

and in the boys hop to explore - nothing there except

the dark mischief that exits when boys will be boys.

Upon the wrecked car the gangsters shoot

the others who are not gangsters, but they

might be, for the firefight is ferocious. 

Then a pow wow on the ledge along the side

of the green corrugated garage of childhood

memories. Remember further down? The frogs

under stones under stones above where the

little moss stream joins the faster gutter. 

They were all called gutters. 

Into the culvert under the road. 

They were all  called culverts, 

and this one ran right under the station; 

and we walked it through, passed the air vent,

an underground tower.

White stalactites, rat droppings and wet socks

running bravado to its end. We did.

James the Milk son you were a glowing archangel 

high above this lot. Where were the cows? Up on

Kilvey hill they were, see up there at the end of my finger.

Where the heather smelled of honey, although 

we never had honey, or knew that there were shops

that sold it. Carbolic and Brasso yes, honey no.

Funny that init like? 

Very funny mun. 

Hilarious.