Milka's Foul Mood 1964 Poem by Terry Collett

Milka was in a mood
as we left the farmhouse
and got on our bicycles.

What's up?
I said.

It's her
(meaning her mother)
having a go
at me about
coming downstairs
in my nightie,
and in front
of you as well,
how was I to know
you were there?
Milka said,
looking back
at the farmhouse.

It's how she is,
likes things done so so,
I said.

How do you know
what she's like,
you only see
the side she
wants you to see,
Milka said,
being all nice to you,
just because
you're young
and good looking,
I bet she fancies you.

Don't be daft,
I said,
she's your mum
not a woman
up the road.

Milka stood
gazing at me:
you fancy her
don't you?
You'd have sex with her
if she let you,
Milka said coldly.

That's stupid,
of course I wouldn't,
I replied.

She looked away
and got on her bike
and rode off.

I got on my bike
and rode after her.

She was in
a fouler mood now,
and peddled fast
as she could.

I followed,
peddling as fast
as I could
to catch her up.

She rode along
the country road
for a good half mile,
when she pulled up
by the peacocks
by a farm cottage,
and got off.

I pulled up
and laid my bike
against a hedge,
and followed her,
and stood next to her
looking at the peacocks.

I'm a moody cow,
she said,
of course you wouldn't
have sex with my mum;
who would?
I don't know how
my dad ever did.

I love you,
I said,
no one else.

She turned
and smiled,
and kissed my cheek,
then stared
at the peacocks again.

I mused on her mother
who had made me toast
and a drink that morning
while I waited for Milka.

I liked her plumpness
and her motherliness,
but that was it,
nothing more,
but sometimes
something niggles you,
and so did that,
that's for sure.