On the Milk

5.30am until 7am

Monday to Friday before school,

up at 4am on Sundays 

finished by lunchtime,

If you drop and break anything

clean it up and never lie to me,

such a scant induction as a

sixteen-year old village milk boy

in 1967, the Summer of Love,

the hippy anthem ‘ San Francisco’

scrolling through my head,

in the rain, I wore a floor-length cape

always bare forearms

in the snow I could hear George

trudging to work three streets away

crunching the freshly fallen powder,

first tea stop was at the boss’s house

always radio 3 on low and the smell of

coffee and dog hair, mingling

with Mozart,

homogenized silver top, 

Channel Island gold top

and sterilized red crown cap, daily

butter and cream only at the weekend,

we were always half done

by the time the Co-op float started,

always guaranteed a scowl,

I had strong throwers’ arms

the metal carriers held ten pints each,

one in each hand

I was paid in cash, always in half-crowns

the fittest I’ve ever been.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21