I miss the conversation of church bells ringing the changes,
Now drowned out by the constant talk of traffic,
Will I miss the sound of traffic when the cars fall silent?
It’s easy to say no, but nostalgia has an ability of altering your outlook.
Already, I miss the clack of typewriters and telephone dialling tones,
The trilling ring and the stridulation of the rotary dial.
The speaking clock and the pips, pip, pip, pip.
Where is the white noise of the tv?
The fizz of tuning from station to station,
Hearing the national anthem send you to sleep.
Though, I can still find it on the radio,
Just as comforting,
Like listening to the sea wash upon the shore from a distance…
The horn of the train across the horizon,
The chuff of the stream engine,
The kettle whistling upon the hearth,
The crackle of the fire,
The sound of spitting cinders,
The scrape of the scuttle shovelling coal.
Chalk striking the blackboard,
The undulating hiss of the vinyl.
The ding as you enter the local shop,
The closing of the cash register as you leave.
How long before the chafing of mail through the letterbox-
The post slumping on the floor- will join the red list,
And be lost to the echo of a memory…
Anthony chooses to write because he has no choice. He writes to get rid of himself and lay his thoughts to rest. He derives most of his inspiration from listening to Classical Music and Jazz since it is often the mood which invokes him. He has recently been published in Streetcake, Shot Glass Journal, Mad Swirl, Flash Fiction North and The Cabinet of Heed.