MILKING TIME
Father always hummed at the milking
Pausing only to say ‘easy girl, easy there’
When a troublesome horse-fly struck
Sitting on his three-legged stool
His pail clamped between his thighs,
He caressed old Daisy’s belly with his head
And sometimes sank his fist into the wrist
When she lashed out
The sound of milk hitting the pail
Was like rain dancing on corrugated steel
He could hit one of those flies
At three paces with one long squirt.
Sometimes he practiced on me.
My Writing Life 
My mom and dad were friends with a farmer who grew crops and chickens and pigs and had a few head of cattle. It’s a very distant childhood memory. They had kids but I wasn’t very close in age or sentiment. On the farm, I got a thorn stuck right on top of my head running past bushes, my sister lost a shoe in the mud, and I recall the cows and pigs. The cows were huge, looming over me, but they were gentle. The pigs were careless and had tempers. This brought back some good memories for me. I even remember the smells of the farm, some of them quite pleasant. And when they baked pies, mom and her friend made the whole house smell good. Thanks for dredging those up.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for your memories michaeljohns. Sounds like you are not a natural farmboy then! Can’t say I ever met pigs with tempers, but the image might even result in a poem! Thanks.
LikeLike
Wonderful memories to have — from a pre-mechanised age, although there are things that don’t change: fathers teasing their sons; farmers’ care for their cattle.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You got it, John. All gone now unfortunately. I remember the cows all had names, and he would talk to them as he milked them.
LikeLike