Dawn creeps over the slate grey terraces of Beswick Street,
bleeding through the cold inky blackness that has hung still during the night.
Darkened windows capture and reflect the street lights’ amber glow,
while frost clings to the trees,
glistens on the pavements
and shrouds the parked cars.
Slowly the winter sun begins to trickle it meagre heat,
thawing the iced roof tops
and drawing the misty vapour skywards.

All is still.
All is quiet.
Until…

A rhythmic
whining
rattling
clinking
edges around the street bend
carried in the crates and bottles of a milk float.
And at the wheel is
‘Milko’ Johnson,
at least that’s what they always call him.

“Forty years I’ve been a milko,
that’s forty years I’ve carted
cream an’
cheese an’
eggs an’
milk
an’ never had a day off ill.”

Milk white capped and
Milk white coat
he pulls his float to a creaky halt outside number forty-two.
“Four pints of gold top, that’s their usual order.”

Whistling his misty breath
he takes the cold bottles out of a crate.
Gloveless
numb thumbed,
he fumbles and
lets a bottle slip.

It smashes the silence
startles a cat
who leaps on a bonnet
and sets a car alarm blasting.
The milk drips through a drain’s grating.
Milko shrugs his shoulders
and with his black booted foot
shoves the splintered glass into the kerb.
“No use crying over the stuff,” he huffs and
places another gold top on the doorstep of number forty-two.

Once more
all is still
all is quiet
in Beswick Street
apart from
the rhythmic
whining
rattling
clinking that is
carried in the crates and bottles of a milk float.
And at the wheel is
Milko Johnson.