The Milkmaid – A Poem

Continuing the food ekphrasis series.

Simplicity

I wish for the mindfulness of a milkmaid.
And the right dress, simple in design,
jaunty as daffodils, and a cloth
about a waist, sleeves rolled up, and a face,
un-creased by worry or care,
a kerchief to hold back my hair
in the sanctity of my kitchen space.

I wish for a milkmaid’s jug.
Bought from a local potter, his fingertips,
stained by tobacco and slurry. Anecdotes
on his lips as he unhurriedly pinches
a pattern along the jug’s tip, telling of
a wife and seven children, some of whom
are milkmaids themselves.

I wish for a cow. Against whose warm flank
I can rest my cheek, who may low
when she sees me, and then frisk when done
like a calf through fields of cornflowers.
I wish for sunlight streaming through
window grills, the cool of stone, and
in the distance the creak of windmills.

I wish for warm milk, to be eaten with bread
made by hands rough-red with washing.
A good few hours work under morning
light, when the colour of sky
matched the tint of my apron, a present
from an aunt who called me sweet girl,
who lived in a house by the beeches.

I wish for a prayer. To be said before
dipping the warm bread into milk,
grateful to let it melt on my tongue,
imagining the most expensive of wines,
the clearest of honeys, the myrrh offered
to the baby Jesus himself. And retiring.
To dreamless, blameless, careless nights in bed.

©elsp 2025