horses in the sisters tales of the farm, pouring down the town streets like milk words up
turned from the churns on a cart they pull, charmed
into porcelain jugs of ears anxious sup
to receive the cold drink of history,
the words of what did whom to when.
Farm is now an industrial city
estate, and milk has migrated to now from then
to other towns, where words whinny and chew
the oats of the day, and women fetch milk from supermarkets, tales packaged anew,
no longer personal, ilk of my ilk,
sours as if the bad things have spoilt the tales,
or memory reimagined their regales.
