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.
