The Milking Hour

Dawn sunlight flickered through the laced curtain of the downstairs living room, door opening out to the farmyard.   Martin peered at the small figurines on his breakfast bowl, a blue willow pattern, of wind swept willows and Chinese peasants – he thought, one day, he would like to go to this place – while a clang of creamery cans from the dairy and the spill of slithering byre chains broke his dreaming.

“Auntie, auntie, may I leave the table? It’s time to fetch the cows for milking.”

Aunt Martha came across from the warm stove to the breakfast table “You finished your cereal?” Martin’s nod and her approving wink set him free.