Years Ago

The old girl looked lost, standing there, Puzzlement resonating on her leathered face, As she gazed at the mouth of the pillar box. The box, an iron sentry, all guardsman red, A stoic ********, a passive recipient of mail, Gave no ground, gave nothing away. Beyond the iced glaze of her grey eyes, Something sparked – scant and fleeting. A fission trip of memories, in tumult. Banshee voices howling doggerel phrases, Mouthed and distant in the windswept canyons, Barely heard, or heard only in snatches, The receptors torn and ragged. Why had she come here? What should she do? She would have known in the summer of Years ago; But in the winter of today Silence and confusion, the cold splutter of atrophy, Told her only of mystification. I watched for a while and then approached. I smiled at her and pointed at the white envelope Clutched in her weathered right hand. “Shall I post that for you, Gram?” I inquired. “Who are you?” She said.