So, I was thinking about how to explain this poem and, to be honest, I don’t really think explaining is going to help all that much. But I’ll try. I wrote this very short poem a few years ago when I was listening to Steven Wilson’s then-new album The Raven That Refused To Sing.

The title track (which you can listen to here (and I highly recommend you do)), is a stunningly beautiful exploration of death and grief (I’m selling it really well). I wondered if there was a way to channel all of that profundity and beauty into a poem about something really ordinary, like a glass of milk.

I failed.


When milk is skimmed, the fat is trimmed
When semi-done, it’s much more fun
But when it’s whole, it heals my soul

Photo Milk.jpg

I honestly don’t even like whole milk…


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