The milkman cometh

The milkman's horse used to leave
        my dad presents.
Galvanised by opportunity, dad collected
        the soft warm brown lumps
with a shovel that grated on the tarmac.

Behind the shed was an old water-filled
        galvanised dolly-tub into which
my dad stirred the dung to make a brown liquid
        with which he filled the screw-on tin reservoir
of a rusting old Flit spray
        for pumping over the tomato beds.

When the milkman's milk started to turn,
        left too long in green enamel jugs
my mother poured it into a muslin bag
        to hang dripping over the sink
to leave a curd cheese residue
        that could be eaten with a salad
of sliced tomatoes straight from the vine.