Helen Walne, _Milk

.................................
Milk
.................................

These breasts are getting bigger,
frothing over in a cafe of
casual skin -
a kitchen of boiling pots
a window-sill of seeds and broken screws.

Yet you still come with your
middle eastern eyes
and dock your face on my pale
silence
and lie
for a while.

Eyebrows, lashes,
the silver harvest of your hair
on my white belly.

For a moment
then

I am a cliff of bleached midday light,
a citrus wind from a holiday sea,

a green willow
sweeping the
weeping linoleum
of crumbs, cobwebs
and crusted milk.

.................................
Helen Walne
.................................