Pillar-Box Red Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

At the threshold of a pillar-box red sash window,
with a smattering of red geraniums,
I imagine a world of varnish and glass —
hard to the touch, but easy to smash.

Pleasing, however,
its polished black panes flash back and forth —
catching the lingering, passing faces
that glimpse their own reflection —
a hand smoothing hair, spine straightening,
stride widening, not once glancing back.

Going to school, college and work,
forgetting the fragrance,
leaves gently brushing in the breeze,
with each forward and backward step —
each reflection a snapshot of infrared,
invisible remote controls —
moving ever forward at pace, no rewind —
the smile that lingered as you greeted a stranger who smiled back.

Ah, to be a geranium,
fragrance rising —
colour emboldened, a flint-locked spark unleashed,
even if the skies are sullen and grey —
feet firmly planted,
with nothing more to say than here I am.