Sir Say Pray

After Thomas Hardy The milkmaids say Pray for their speech is reserved, fixed here in circles of opalized light. Presenting themselves without fancy or choice chapped hands on the full udder’s verge, y’know — cream-skinned, gathering toad spume on skirts relentlessly cracking the snails underfoot — a century later & more their compeers bow heads to these luminous fields made of ether, of blue & extravagant air, calling up with the same nimble fingers their ciphered familiars, girl-souls at large in a nonhuman hour. Speaking their argot & screen-practiced moue. Not to you, with your paper, your man-heavy shoes, untouched by the mulch of the digital yard! They only gaze rapt at threshold, milk spilled. No purchase for you here,Sir, & no clue —