Red but not quite dead

From the days when Victoria reigned over an empire and not a secret,
The red of the post man's charge and duty fades to flowery white,
The mice and squirrels run past and ignore the damage and change,
They care nothing for the cast iron hands of time passing old faces.

The ghosts from the village houses send out messages and notes.
At midnight some may read the few lines they wrote,
Scratchy pens and blots and gummed paper to seal,
Folded and posted to far away places like Dundee, Edinburgh or Australia.

Now the spiders webs are thick and grey, today's rain drips in,
The grass is as green and collected in a dirty wheelie bin,
Range Rovers, black dogs, tractors and funerals pass by,
From Victoria to Elizabeth in the blink of an eye.

Things we like

I've no clear idea why this is here other than to take up some valuable space that could otherwise have been better used in a more worthwhile cause.

Trick

A trick of the lazy light, see the tall trees that lead to the end of the path and more trees. Ornamental and serene, organised and bright, plantings and planning and the schemes of old men dug out by their young workers.

People come and sip cool drinks and chat and talk and laugh about this and that and what ever seems important enough or trivial enough and that is relaxation.

Once the weather breaks the slopes are empty and the paths run with rain not feet. Watch the sky through glass, let the evening fall and let the storm clouds pass.

This was part of summer and has registered.