Bottled
The bottles sat, empty, clean,
timelessly transparent upon the purity
of a chalk walkway;
antiquated memories
of morning milkmen linger.
The hollow hourglass shapes
lacking the grains of time,
reflecting, and refracting lemon light
dollops of cream, buttermilk dreams.
Devon Red herds await
the bottles empty state,
to fill with froth, to zing tin pails,
to drowse to the lilt of a milkmaids’ aire.
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