School Milk

Those over 40 may have a dim memory of receiving milk at primary school as part of a morning break, a practice Margaret Thatcher brought to an end while education minister, earning her the soubriquet “Thatcher the milk snatcher”. Glasgow’s Poet Laureate Jim Carruth well remembers the experiences of drinking milk at school, albeit as a farmer’s son he remembers the milk as underwhelming compared to what he received at home. “School Milk” is taken from Carruth’s new collection Bale Fire (Polygon, £8.99).

It should have rescued me from the rigid desk, my clumsy writing constrained between narrow lines, my numbers following the strict rules of the abacus, the strap-backed warnings to keep off the grass.

First disappointment was the alien pyramid: waxed cardboard sides a straw would not puncture, to the amusement of my fellow pupils, Farmer’s son can’t even drink his milk.

But worse by far was the taste – not the frothy thick cream, but lifeless, cold. Maybe it was the limitations of the straw, or the two-mile journey that pricked its bubbles,

or it came from a different herd, another district, lines of sad cows shut up inside all year, chained in cubicles, kept from the grass, missing the fields, dying for the bell.

You can find a copy of Bale Fire by Jim Carruth at the Scottish Poetry Library, 5 Crichton’s Close, Edinburgh EH8 8DT. For poetry enquiries, e-mail reception@ spl.org.uk or visit www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk