The Milkman's Passing

The Milkman's Passing  

A hiss of wheels on cobbled street,  

hoofbeats tapping out broken rhythms.  

The glass song of bottles sways gently,  

their clinking a hymn to day's birth.  

The roofs wear dawn like thin coats,  

cold blue brushed by pale gold seams.  

In bed, the walls hum stillness,  

a quilt of silence wraps its weight.  

The milkman wears time on his shoulders,  

a morning that smells faintly of dust.  

His wooden cart wobbles, sighing softly,  

reins dangling like sleep’s loose threads.  

When he’s gone, the street is emptied,  

footsteps of night still damp, receding.  

The cart's music dwindles to a whisper,  

you yawn, letting dreams drift away.