poetic decay

Hark, Hark the dogs do bark, the beggars have come to town. I remember my mum saying that to me when I was a kid. She used to know the beginning of lots of old nursery rhymes but never all the way through. But these rhymes as a child and even now spoke to me of a time before this one I'm now in. They spoke to me of a time even before the one I was in then as a child. Not last night but the night before. Two Tom cats came a knocking at the door. I went down stairs to let them in. They knocked me down with a rolling pin. The rolling pin was made of glass they knocked me down upon my arse. Another one for the memory banks, making me wonder then as it does now, who made that up? It's a kind of older and darker memory of before my birth into the dark alleyways of foggy London town where Wee Willy Winky ran upstairs downstairs in his night gown. Sounds like he was bit of a naughty boy old Willy. These old nursery rhymes like an old re discovered mine or tunnel thats been covered over lets me smell the old coal fires in the kitchens of the past. The smell of candles burning and dampness in the walls and floors of cooking and steam and old rubber. Although I love my shiny i phone and my lovely mac I long for some of those smells and sounds I no longer smell or hear. The future is now mate every thing's been straightened out it's all shiny and smooth with no soul. The old dark chimneys and all of the horse shit is no more. And strangely part of me says. What a shame.