Collecting Liquid Gold Poem by Tom Billsborough

Next we drove to Barry's farm, o'er Scorton way
'This family's quite posh, ' my Dad began to say
Backing his lorry into the loading bay.
'They own three hundred cattle, Jerseys,
Friesians too, ' he went on to explain.
At that a thought passed through my brain.
Giving cows a jersey would really keep them warm.
I reckoned this must be a very special farm.
Wool, I guessed, and were they different colours?
Like football teams doing press-ups on all fours.
'Are they woolly Jerseys, ' I then enquired at last.
My father laughed so much he almost breathed his last
As he neatly he braked two inches from the bays.
He then explained with a twinkle in his eyes
The cows came first from Jersey, in the Channel Isles.
As for wearing jerseys, he added with a smile,
Maybe so the winter, but a trifle hot today!
He winked at Jim, my brother, who had begun to grin.
He was a year wiser then and a lot more sin'
My father spun the churns along and eager for the fray
We started on the bottled milk, pale yellow at the necks,
Some we carried, most we slid along the shiny decks.
And soon we'd done and loaded up and just about to go
When Mr Barry came along and suddenly cried: Whoa! '
'Those lads of yours need building up. This is what they need.
Two bottles of this creamy milk from the world's best breed.
He gave my Dad another two and waved us on our way.
Wow! This isn't work, I grinned. It's a flipping holiday.
So off we went through country lanes and round a windy bend

And up a steady slope we drove at last to Harris End.
Here Dad stopped the lorry and clutching each our prizes
We sat upon the grassy slope among the sparkling daisies.
And here it was we drank that milk, so rich in butterfat,
So cool and smooth as silk in all that August heat.
And down below the fields spread out to distant Morecambe Bay,
To Silverdale and Lakeland fells not so far away.
Now when I drop to Lancaster from o'er the Bowland way,
I think of Dad and Jersey milk that sunny August day