Rural Post Box

At the corner of the lane where the road meets the trees,
I found my way with the dog that can’t see,
to a mysterious red box bright as can be,
I posted the letters on their journey.

The wind whipped my face, icy in the breeze,
Cars whizzed past Biggles and me.
Up the lane and past the farm,
The geese made a racket with usual charm.

Down the hill with Biggles’ tail wagging,
his nose to the ground, no time for flagging,
Following a scent to lead us back,
fresh air with Biggles put me right on track.

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