Feeding the Milkman's Horse

The sun is gleaming through the bare limbs
of the lime tree avenue,
dew is on the grassy verge,
morning mist hides the view.
Leather satchel slung over my shoulder

pencil case, ruler, reading book inside.
Black school cap on my head
black leather shoes on my feet
echo on the cobbles;
I meander my way to school.

Past the church tower
brass clock hands shine
naming twelve and nine,
brass bell tolling the hour.

Past the baker's shop
warm loaves in the window.
Past the village pond
ducks performing aquabatics.

In under the stone arch
strictly marked BOYS.
Along the empty corridor
in at the glass-panelled classroom door.

Mrs Trimble sitting at a high desk
peers over her spectacles,
'You're late, Johnny! Where have you been?'
'When the milkman stopped at our house

and he measured out a quart with his can
I didn't want to run and spill it.
Mum had given me an apple
and I was feeding the milkman's horse, Miss.'

1 Sept 2014