It’s time to hang your hat, sir. Your work has come to an end. I’ll miss the hand waves and the bells of a much beloved friend. Seeing you early each morning counting out the coloured cards placing them through each letterbox with a smile, wink and kind regards. Rain or shine, you were always there the glue that held the villages together with paper and ink and postcards of flowery bridges. But, the wheels of time push progress and you have been found wanting. Time, she has made you redundant and so Death has begun knocking. It’s time to hang up your hat, sir. Your work has come to an end. We’ll remember you in our scrapbooks and label you, a long lost friend. Poem was inspired by an article in The Age: Are you ready to abandon snail mail?