They whistled in the pubs,
on their way to work;
tunes, the music of their day.
But streets stand silent now;
those days are gone and pasts.
'Tis the songs, they say, to blame,
they've no melody,no words:
though, care, has played its part.

Once, cobbled stones resounded,
to the noise of hobnailed boots,
and the clip, clip, clopping of horses hooves
as iron rimmed wheels roll on.
as well, the far off cry 'Rag and Bones,'
'Rag and Bones' sounding on the morning air.

Dustbin lids; Barking dogs; Howling Cats
and a family quarrel,
disturbs the midnight calm.
The distant purring in the early dawn
of a milkman's soundless float;
Gold tops; Cheese; Eggs; Double Cream,
and the rattling crates of Milk.

The swish of skipping ropes,
the thud of feet;
as hopscotch and tag warm up.
shrieking children at play in the street,
and cries as they fall from their bikes.
Creaking gates on rusty hindges,
as kids, swing on them too and fro.

Not any more these sounds will we hear;
as children forget how to play.
And whistling? Well, that too has gone,
replaced by the jingle of phones.
But what of the boot, the horse and the cart,
the float of the milkman as well?
such gentle sounds are redundant now,
drowned-out by irrelevant noise.