No more in the city the glad voices sound,
No cricket-ball striking, no feet on the ground.
The playground lies empty, the swing creaks alone,
For children now wander through worlds on a phone.
No ring-a-rosy, no laughter takes flight,
Just ghostly blue faces in flickering light.
Tradition lies silent, its echoes grow thin,
As pixels replace where the games had once been.
But out on the farm where the wild breezes run,
The fields are alive with the shouts of the young!
The leather still cracks as the willow takes aim,
And children chase laughter as once in the game.
The barn doors swing wide, and the hay bales rise high,
As voices ring clear ‘neath the broad open sky.
With hounds at their heels and the wind in their hair,
They labour and laugh in the sun's golden glare.
So let the grey towers be silent and still,
Let wires not tether the mind or the will!
For hands in the earth and the sweat on the brow
Shall fashion a future far brighter than now.
Let rulers take heed, for no empire may stand
When childhood is lost at technology’s hand.
But where the land sings and the old ways endure,
The laughter of children shall ever be pure!
(By John Shenton)