Memories

The slow clip-clop of a horse, As the milkman starts his rounds, Long ago, of course, Now other ways are found. The clinking of the milk bottles, Placed on the steps, Of every house in roads and streets, A sound I won't ever forget. The milkman delivering in the mornings, The sound of the slow clip-clop, It was very soothing, A shame it had to stop. The world was changing, Things were being mechanised. All was rearranging, Before our eyes. Speed took preference Over the slower pace. The poor horse had its day, And was out of the rat race, Go! Go! Go! until eventually you drop. I believe in progress, But avarice not. I may be idealistic, If so, I don't care. I agree with W H Davies, We should have time to stand and stare.