(For Charles Henry Brearley of Manor Farm, Cridling Stubbs)
The sun rises unrefreshed
Breaking fast the Brearleys
press on
Offensive wind monsters the cracked gaze
of the dairy window
The cream doesn't want to churn
With her back to the wall
at the front, Gladys struggles
to soldier
Miss Wiles wanders Wordsworth
whilst Gladys wonders
Why would the cream not churn?
Harold inspects the beasts
fodders foldyard tumbrel
and hunkers down
with drinkings in New Spring ditch
to dream on
The Peace when cream will churn
George, Mr Brearley scours flesh from fresh
Leeds Intelligencer
Lobs bone at supine Rex
Lumbers
to order the absent lad's horses
Willing the cream to churn
Finally as application and alchemy
struck gold
Ada Brearley struck the deepest darks
as wounded as their lad's crimsons
as brocken as his brockback
Ada knew a thing or two about churning
as the son went down
Claire Crossdale
