When challenged to write a poem on the colour red I recalled a letter box I’d seen embedded in the wall of an old post house in Scotland. I’ve taken liberties with the location to create a rhyme. Hopefully I can be forgiven this small artistic licence.
The life and times of a letter box
Birthed in a time of strife
In the dark hours of life
This letterbox is royalty
A sign of British loyalty
Embossed with a sovereign’s initials
Tended by government officials
G for George, R for Rex, the wartime king.
Embedded in a wall near the town of Killin.
Its gaping mouth, a humourless line
Devouring mail like a godless shrine
Day after day, swallowing with gravity
Good news. Sad news. Joy and tragedy.
Precious words that someone will savour
All taste the same on pristine white paper.
No guarantee of safe arrival
Fickle chance drives the art of survival.
Father to daughter, the years float by
Elizabeth ascends with a world-weary sigh
The writers of letters fade slowly away
Texts and emails the comms of the day.
Born in a time of worldwide strife
The box now reaches the end of life.
Fresh bricks mark its place in the ancient stone wall
Its service just memory few can recall.