The black pick-up trundles by.
Every late evening the same
trek along these quiet roads
is hated by an unseen driver.

On the back a bottled reservoir
of milk ebbs and flows like ice
on some red planet faraway.
Tonight the telegraphed heat

of coming day means he trickles.
Then all along moonless lanes
he rattles home empty, longing
for rain and the lure of firesides.


Tony Noon