A thick crust， coarse-grained as limestone¹ rough-cast，

　　hardened gradually on top of the four crocks

　　that stood， large pottery² bombs， in the small pantry.

　　After the hot brewery³ of gland⁴， cud and udder，

　　cool porous⁵ earthenware⁶ fermented⁷ the butter milk

　　for churning day， when the hooped⁸ churn was scoured⁹

　　with plumping kettles and the busy scrubber

　　echoed daintily on the seasoned wood.

　　It stood then， purified， on the flagged kitchen floor.

　　Out came the four crocks， spilled their heavy lip

　　of cream， their white insides， into the sterile¹⁰ churn.

　　The staff， like a great whiskey muddler fashioned

　　in deal wood， was plunged¹¹ in， the lid fitted.

　　My mother took first turn， set up rhythms

　　that， slugged and thumped¹² for hours. Arms ached.

　　Hands blistered¹³. Cheeks and clothes were spattered

　　with flabby milk.

　　Where finally gold flecks¹⁴

　　began to dance. They poured hot water then，

　　sterilized¹⁵ a birchwood bowl

　　and little corrugated¹⁶ butter-spades.

　　Their short stroke quickened， suddenly

　　a yellow curd¹⁷ was weighting the churned-up white，

　　heavy and rich， coagulated sunlight

　　that they fished， dripping， in a wide tin strainer，

　　heaped up like gilded¹⁸ gravel¹⁹ in the bowl.

　　The house would stink²⁰ long after churning day，

　　acrid²¹ as a sulphur mine. The empty crocks

　　were ranged along the wall again， the butter

　　in soft printed slabs²² was piled on pantry shelves.

　　And in the house we moved with gravid ease，

　　our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns，

　　the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk，

　　the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.