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The latest post casts red abroad, as vents sext anger, gossip, blush; that book, our faces, too abrupt, or cartoon line, some Tweetie Pie. So rarely through a letter box, exciting flight from flap to mat, when rumour spreads the postie’s been, no need for knock, let alone twice.

The P.O. box, nefarious, a post restante for travellers, dead letter write, espionage, but inkwell, nib, Basildon Bond? Thus pillars stand like graveyard stones, memorials for age that’s passed, the bloodline of a former life, when notelets spoke handwritten love.

Considered, traded instant ping, no curlicues or serif wings, OMG for God bless wish, a shorthand code where quill reread. I have my letters, sixty years, of love, rebuke, tear-stained scent, the triumphs, failures through decades, epistles, sealed and regal stamped.

My great grandfather’s letter book, true carbon copies of his words, trading, his stockbroker shares, while superintendent, Sunday School, the rich in castle, poor at gate, when all was bright and beautiful, It’s correspondence, centuries, reveals the zeitgeist, prophets, loss.

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