Milk
By Holly Crawford
Fridge doors across the land
Slam
Milk bottles rattle:
Battle cries
Against an unknown foe
Actions carried out by hands belonging to
People not feeble in the face of fear
Never defeated ,
They don’t plan on starting now
Milk jugs in staff kitchens
Replenished by morning
A conjuring trick!
Or humans weaving hard-won magic?
Kettles flicked on
by determined volunteers,
Interpreters working all hours
Untangling words even they don’t understand
Explaining the unexplainable unknown
Soothing scared strangers who ‘don’t understand’
Nobody does.
There are no leaflets to give out
But you can’t misunderstand fear
It floors us, momentarily.
Then we get up and fight
In hospitals,
mop buckets wage war
Against infection
Preoccupied people
pace
down corridors
On floors that gleam
Not giving their cleanliness a thought
But somebody’s done the backbreaking work
No child, cuddling ted, ever said:
‘Mummy, when I grow up I want to work for minimum wage
Do the grimiest job for no glory.
Be an extra in someone else’s story’
But they do:
in buildings, factories
Places you don’t even know
Proud.
Cutlery in canteens gleams
Taps don’t leak in toilets where
Staff stare at haunted reflections
Gathering thoughts
strength
For the onslaught
‘I’ll put the kettle on’
The mantra of anyone in crisis
That unofficial remedy for shock/when there’s nothing to be done
Mugs of (enter your beverage of choice here)
Made with precision and
The grim determination of someone who wishes they weren’t there
Witnessing in slow motion the thudding sadness of tragic theatre
Attempting to crack heartbreaking silence with
jokes and facts everyone knows
Hollow laughter juxtaposed
With crying
Drinks poured into inappropriate mugs passed as
Liquid hugs (contact prohibited)
When we need to connect:
Eyes sadly smiling
saying
‘I know’
A nurse takes the beverage with shaking hands
Sugar spins like his mind
Milk flows in
He sips and grins
A liquid gift
From an army of female workers who don’t get paid
Ruminating stars of The Milk Show,
Ensuring millions of exhausted employees don’t go off
to work without milk in their tea or cereal bowl
Cows’ bodies map their story
Trace their tales
Beyond borders
Key workers in England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales
Farmers too,
Slice through their own dreams
To keep milk flowing
Delivered to doorsteps on milkmens’ whistles
By drivers on missions
Stacked by (very) supermarket staff
Key workers walk with bags of dreams
To jobs that often don’t seem to live up to the
Aspirations they once scrawled on school books
Commuting past houses
They can’t afford to look at
Let alone rent in the communities they serve
But still they
Rebuild societies shredded by fear
Rescue those whose bubbles have burst
When the highest paid people in the land don’t have the solutions
Or the ‘quick fixes’ we’re used to,
Those on the ground plod on
Not loud or showy
Keeping hopes of others alive
Tending wounds
As if it’s nothing,
When it's...
Stepping over fear
Wading through tears
Embracing us with caring arms…
Everything
Written Word ‘Hand’ poems