Something

Like a Fire Engine,
but cylindrical
and not for burning letters
or for dousing them in water;
ink won’t run
or paper shred in flames

This round, red, treehouse-
insignia of her majesty, is quiet-
in winter topped with snow,
once in spring a sparrow
trying to lean a nest
inside its slot of mouth.

I’m writing to you about love.
Drawing archs in biro.
Spraying the pages
with roses,
jasmine,
white musk.

I’m feeding the padded envelope
into the dark and holding
the side of this thing
I usually only ever walk past.
I’m breathing and thinking
and slightly-

hanging back.
And this thing,
tired and hungry
in an age of email,
is waiting and watching
inside its-

hollowed out heart.
It’s listening for the moment
beyond the traffic
and the shouting
and the rain against its shell
that I let go and briefly-

my words belong to it.

….This is a [second] draft of my poetry thursday piece. Thanks to Ivory who reminded me to write it and apologies as I now may well be late to coffee with her!