Sounds of childhood.
Early morning, and the clang of a metal bin
slurp of a lorry grinding to a halt
a pit siren beckoning people to work
march of a clog on a stone cobble
whistle of a train as it passes over a bridge
clang of a trolley bus
scraping out of ashes on a frosty morning.
Afternoon, and the hiss of steam on washing day
cry of a rag and bone man
clip clop of horses hooves
barks of stray dogs
screech of children down the back road.
Evening, and the whistle of a kettle
fire crackling in a black leaded grate
tick of a mantel clock
creak of a rocking chair
a wooden door opening
and the voice of my mother singing.
sally james
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