The Telephone Box

The old red telephone box has seen it all:

its old, heavy door has welcomed giggling groups of teenagers,

desperate to shelter from the wind and rain,

but not keen to return to the rules of home just yet.

She has listened, amused by their human worries and chatter.

Her old bones of iron and flaking paint welcome them, however.

Young men have stood here,

leaning casually against the misted glass panes,

speaking to girl friends and mothers.

Young women have also stood for a while,

twirling the cable around their fingers

as they talked animatedly to friends about the latest crush.

Coins rattled through the slot because the conversation wasn't quite over!

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She has stood, battered but unmoving, against storm after storm.

Her coastal position means that salt spray and waves

often try to peel the paint from her skeleton:

salt crystals irritate and separate her red coat from her body,

but they will need to try harder.

Rust and peeling paint are all that shows from their assaults-

she still stands solid, firm, and well bedded in to the ground beneath.

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Animals come by sometimes, sniffing around, pecking at grass.

A black hen,

a nearby resident, likes to look at herself in the reflective glass.

She hasn’t quite worked out that she’s seeing herself,

and she often puffs up her glossy blue-black feathers

and struts back and forth in front of the’ rival’.

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Few people come to use the phone box anymore,

with no need to,

since mobile phones are the constant mode of communication now.

The phone box is often lonely

and she stands night and day, day and night

watching the tides come in and out,

the seasons pass,

and the animals creep by.

She’ll be here for a long time

while the sea and the elements

try to peel her red coat from her strong bones.

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