THE HUSH AND THE HUM; the rhythms they are a-changing.

Here I am, approaching seventy-five,

and now I re-define myself:

I am a bridge.

A quiet span between what was

and what’s still becoming.

I was born in one Britain,

now I’m parked in its digital offspring.

Coal smoke, milk floats, tin baths,

wages folded brown and exact on Fridays,

the mangle’s iron mouth

flattening shirts into obedience.

Pavements patchy with hopscotch chalk,

and in the gutters, white fossils of dog doo.

Neighbours lingered at garden gates, their time thick enough to rest against,

and their small talk drifting and billowing like washing on the line.

And after tea, the sanctioned quiet;

chairs creaking, pages turning,

a hush you entered rather than filled.

We lingered in that hush.

Patience wasn’t a virtue then,

It was just the rhythm of the time.

Then, change.

First, a hush.

Then, the hum.

Phones flattened into fists.

Music went ghost, all signal, no skin,

nothing to hold.

News arrived before the kettle boiled.

I tapped, I swiped, checked my balance and my steps,

watched parcels race to my door.

spoke to a bodiless ‘Alexa’ – that answered!

I remember milk clinking onto the door-step

freezing so cold it argued with my hands.

These days I negotiate self-checkouts,

seeing no one.

I remember queuing outside phone boxes in the rain, fist full of change.

Now I see pixelated smiles from oceans away.

I remember, “Shhhhh”

before the world blinked and buzzed.

Now I live in its flicker and fuss.

They start from places

I arrived at late.

Into a world more wired through and through

I don’t expect them to recall

the slow, misted mornings as I do.

But I still write poems, ping emails,

Tell a story from memory,

enquire about anything from Ai bots.

I’ve held envelopes

with slanted handwriting,

and watched messages

cross time zones in under a second.

Change hasn’t erased me.

It opens the curtain on to newer shows

but I still carry yesterday’s woodsmoke in my clothes.

I’ve wept by graves.

Cradled breathless new life.

Watched old ailments vanish

and fresh ones arrive like uninvited guests.

I’ve unfolded maps on my knees,

but now surrender to

the soulless satellite navigator

who knows the way to everywhere,

but has never tasted the drama of being lost!

I’ve licked stamps for postcards

that wandered continents.

Now I tap tiny hearts and yellow faces

where once I’d fumbled for words.

No bitterness in this bridge I’ve become

only gratitude, having known

both the hush and the hum.

If I can leave you anything, it’s this:

Not all beauty gleams.

Not all wisdom hurries.

There is wonder in the waiting,

and stillness can teach as much as flight.

The world, is still fluent in mystery.

I learned this crossing the bridge:

love does not compress well.

Grief mistranslates when rushed.

Wonder dies the moment it is optimized.

And mystery, once hurried,

stops answering at all.

So if you must hurry, hurry wisely.

Leave some things unsearched,

unmeasured,

and late.

Some truths need time

to recognise you.

Some things should never arrive on time.

Me? A bridge worn smooth by crossings,

And I’ve seen the hush fade,

held steady by time.

the hum swell,

and the light shift

from windows to screens.

But beauty still lingers in both.

I’ve heard enough silences

between words to know…

enough to know that

every age has its wonders.

Original.

Here I am, approaching seventy-five,

and now I see it:

I am a bridge.

A quiet span between

what was

and what’s still becoming.

I was born in one Britain,

now I’m parked in its digital offspring.

Coal smoke, milk floats, tin baths,

mangle wheels turning in back-kitchen gloom.

Windows flung wide,

pavements patchy with hopscotch chalk,

and in the gutters, strange, white fossils of dog doo no one yet cleaned up.

Neighbours lingered at garden gates,

small talk drifting like washing.

People moving home for hope and a career

new faces drew curiosity rather than fear.

We waited for books

our names inked inside library cards,

weeks spent wondering

who had it last,

and waiting for the hush of after tea

to sit,

and read.

Patience wasn’t a virtue.

It was the rhythm of the time.

Then, change.

First, a hush.

Then, the hum.

Phones disappear into fists.

Music goes ghost, all signal, no skin, nothing to hold.

News arrived before the kettle boiled.

I tapped, I swiped, checked my balance and my steps,

watched parcels race to my door.

I spoke to machines,

and astonishingly, Alexa answered.

I remember milk clinking onto the door-step

freezing cold from early delivery.

I’ve negotiated self-checkouts,

seeing no one.

I queued outside phone boxes in the rain, fist full of change.

Now I watch grandchildren’s pixelated smiles from oceans away.

I remember the hush

before the world blinked and buzzed.

Now I live in its flicker and hum.

They start from places

I arrived at late.

Into a world more wired through and through

I don’t expect them to recall

those slow, misted mornings that I do.

But I can still write a poem

and ping an email.

Tell a story from memory,

even ask Google about anything!

I’ve held envelopes

with slanted handwriting,

and watched messages

cross time zones in under a second.

Change hasn’t erased me.

It sends me on to newer shows

but still carrying yesterday’s woodsmoke in my clothes.

I’ve wept by graves.

Cradled breathless new life.

Watched old ailments vanish

and fresh ones arrive

like uninvited guests.

I’ve unfolded maps on my knees,

then surrendered to

the soulless satellite navigator

who knows the way to everywhere

I’ve licked stamps for postcards

that wandered continents.

Now I tap tiny hearts and yellow faces

where once I’d fumbled for words.

No bitterness in this bridge I’ve become

only gratitude, having known

both the hush and the hum.

If I can leave you anything, it’s this:

Not all beauty gleams.

Not all wisdom hurries.

There is wonder in the waiting,

and stillness

can teach as much as flight.

The world,

is still fluent in mystery.

I am a bridge

worn smooth by crossings,