Call me sentimental, but I miss door knockers,
Bakelite phones, and oak rocking chairs, let alone
tapping out a stanza on a Remington to the sound
of a valve radio tuned to the BBC Third Programme
in the hope of making a few guineas for another stack
of cloth-bound volumes, forever destined to gather
saudade.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 