The school milk trolley has just rattled in,
its pure white bottles small and neatly queued
like well-behaved children in the playground.
Good. They didnít heat the milk today,
itís a bloodcurdling thought.
The bottle tops dare to be red, almost brazen.
Too overt for me, I prefer to be covert,
mixing things up on the inside. A pink milkshake.
The white softening up the red to blow it out as
sweet little bubbles from a strawberry mousse.
Now what about some aniseed balls?
Tucked inside the shop, they share a colour
with the corridor floors Ė burgundy. Or is it
brown? The dullness of a few pennies
in the purse that can only buy one bag.
Pull the seal apart, open wide and
in they go, such a bold taste
especially when it comes to the crunch.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Susan
Wilson would be pleased to hear them.