Last night I dreamt of the end of the world and of children churning milk

Maybe a bee, maybe a bird
I observed it all from above.
It was warm, air was the breath
of a panting dog. In corn crowded
fields, tractors, constant in
their murmur, scythed their lines
beneath a cloudless true-blue sky.

From homestead chimneys
thick smoke trickled lazily
into a windless sky.
Maybe a bee, maybe a bird
I observed summer bronzed
children churning milk.
In turns they plunged the paddle
into the sop and suck
of the barrel, singing

"Come butter come
Come butter come
Peter stands at the gate
Waiting for a buttered cake"

Then a lightning sky.
Not forks of whip-lashed light
but a single sheet of brightness.
Stunned to a halt,
awed into silence, the children
finger-shielded their squinted
eyed to watch the horizon ignite.

Tractors shunted to a stop,
shaded dogs jerked from their
grassy spot to take seat
at the feet of the men.
Everyone stilled, silent,
as though natives watching
the monstrous
white-sailed boats
drop anchor
within shouting distance
of the shore.
And then the world
wailed white,

and the rope of your arms,
taunt against my trembling form
hauled me back to
black.



Note- The rhyming verse is a traditional English churning song

Frederick Kesner
Almost hypnotic and quite charming although threatening dark.

James T. Adair
Things weren't taken for granted such as butter. Anyway some seem certain that Judgement Day is May 21st 2011 so you might be tapping into a larger consciousness

Sandra Martyres
An amazing piece..you had my full attention till the last line..tfs

Lynda Robson
Excellent poem, look forward to reading more