Milking Time

Across the fields, at close of day, When mists fall low, and the skies are grey, The cows with solemn slowness plod, Homeward, through oozing, squelching sod, And into gleaming cubicles across the road, Await the release of their 'precious' load. Of course, they cannot have realised, That their'contents' end up being sterilised, Sold in plastic bottles of varying sizes, Or in cartons on which a firm advertises The healthy benefits of natural milk. Which slips down the throat, as smooth as silk. Cows are the most beautiful creatures, Have you, at any time, studied their features, Their huge big eyes with lashes flattering, And lusty tails, that are constantly battering Their rear ends, keeping the flies at bay. My admiration for them, I would like to convey. We tend not to notice them behind their walls, Chained securely to their milking stalls, Each day, producing milk to fill our fridges, While continually being pestered by scores of midges. Poor souls! When next time you buy your milk by the quart, Of these charming creatures, 'Please, Please give a thought! '. © Ernestine Northover