Milk

It looks so pretty.
More sparkle than Monroe.
It is untouched for this first dawn hour.
I didn't hear it fall, I normally do.
They said it was coming last Monday.
I remember last year's lot. And a time 50 years ago.
Last year I slipped and smacked my hip - that took a gingery few months to heal.
50 years ago I slid down the main road on a tray we'd got on our wedding day.
I am watching my breath making haloes,
The breath from last night slides down the window into icey pools.
The last of the milk went on Weetabix.
And my fingerless gloves need fingers.
My daughter brought me padded boots last Christmas but they've got no grip.
So I am contemplating wellies.
The pavement's everest.
Domestic salt can grit the first two steps.
I'll leave the heater burning.
Doris next door says not to.
But I don't want to get into the cold from the cold.
I've been head of a family took part in Dday now I forget my name and spend the morning working upto getting the milk.
I have a blueveined nose, hairy ears and nostrils and strange crusty spots of skin that don't go away with scrubbing.
If anyone had told me that this was getting old I think I would have tried harded when I was young, maybe.

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