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.