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

Baptised by early rain
they face up to light.
Upright as old pianos,
kettles boil all day long
while white nets gleam.

One day finer minds
might correlate them
with defunct chapels;
might seek out the lost
people and ask aloud

if the risen sun had
called them to glory.


Tony Noon

I could buy milk at any hour
but choose to wait until the sun
is at least hiding behind clouds.

In a world which wants it now,
a little sanctity for the small hours
does not seem to go astray.


Tony Noon