Milking Time

There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;
There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;
There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,
And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.
For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;
For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;
And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming
That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.

Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;
And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;
The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,
And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.
And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,
And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,
And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,
And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.

Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;
And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;
And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,
And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.
And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;
And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;
And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry
Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.

So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;
And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;
And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,
And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.
And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?
And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;
And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying
That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed.

A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;
That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;
That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches
Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.
Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;
And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;
And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather
We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . .

(English voice, months later): --

"Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy. Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime."

by Robert William Service

Comments (3)

Wow! I really liked this piece. It paints a scene with deftness and layers it with layer after layer of meaning.f
Dreams are part of us. Nice work.
Beautiful, reads like a legendary folk tail set in the modern automotive era; the saga of an aging fallible father feeling the insecurity of his years, beaten down by failures and battle scares fears, the mockery of his drunken son while changing a tire in the cold night snow, but the son though drunk still adores his beloved father from childhood to adulthood. The endearing twists and turns are made so by the revelation that the son still adores, deeply loves his father, witnessed testified to by the way the son 'slips the tire iron gently from his father's grip and kneels down in the unstained snow and unbolts the wheel' before the unity of their common heritage sung in a much loved song of their cultural origins. This poem to me is superb, but then I am now becoming an aging fallible father, feeling the insecurity of his years, in aging changing abilities, in threatening economic times.10+++