I miss the euphony of birds at dusk’s soft kiss,
Their songs once crowned the Sun in fleeting bliss.
Memory stirs — a street scene veiled in light,
A bygone day reborn in twilight’s bite.
The winding road concluded at the tree’s embrace,
Where stood the Red Box, keeper of time’s trace.
Forged by decree, a carmine sentinel still,
Now fallen silent on the village hill.
In boyhood’s wanderings down that humble street,
I’d pause and wonder what secrets it might keep.
I’d peer within when the Postman came to claim —
Envelopes slipped like whispers with no name.
At dusk, that vision pierced me with its pain —
A relic ruined by wind and rust and rain.
Creepers wound their wreaths around its frame,
While lizards skittered, flies laid siege in vain.
One day, they’ll mark it — a relic of our place,
A story sealed in rust and creeping lace.
Yet when I think of that red box grown old,
A boy’s soft longing in my chest takes hold.
Time races on — we too shall find release,
And wish that Red Box might just rust in peace.
This poem is a quiet elegy for the ordinary relics of our childhood — a weathered post-box, a fading street, a bird’s forgotten song. In its rust and ruin, I find a memory that outlives time: a boy’s wonder sealed in carmine metal, left to dream beneath creeping vines. May these lines remind us that even the simplest corners of our past deserve a final resting place in the heart.
