Daintiness suggests it was crafted
for a Victorian woman’s life and person.
Gift from a husband or father no doubt.
Its tiny key meant for delicate hands kept soft
by glove etiquette, that swiftly dipped
pen nibs into the neat ink jars without
a dribble, to write in elegant copper plate.
Passed down by a series of ‘careful owners’,
the walnut box now placed into my hands,
big as a man’s and garden weathered,
handwriting, a primary school scrawl.
I imagine a 150 years’ worth of letters
that emails and texts have now killed off,
instead, my poems are shaped over weeks,
on the slope that is better company than a laptop,
poems personal as letters, posted out
to whom it may concern ⸺
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.