The red box

The wild nights
bring the clearest thoughts
And I wake up with a start
as I recall the box
I threw away
as I emptied out your shed

The wooden box
painted red
With a small blue knob
and little drummer-boys
lovingly applied
to lid and side

The box
that neatly stored
my toys
so long ago
Plastic animals
the Lego
and the cars

That was set upon
a summer lawn
the day that Peter built
his bungalows of bricks
When Mrs Young
brought me home
All heavy jerking sobs
and diarrhoea

The solid wooden box
so carefully hinged
and meant to last a lifetime
Which it might have done
had the shed
not fallen down

As I see it now
it looks pristine
Shining paint
It gleams
among the tins
of nuts and bolts
The jars of screws
The rusting lawnmower
and the last

Though it could be
that the paint was flaking
That the knob
and little drummer-boys
were gone
And rusty water
that the nails sat in
had rotted out the bottom
long ago

But in that leaning shed
That crumbling glory-hole
of self-sufficiency
That cobwebbed monument
to independent man
The red box
shines as perfect
and resilient
as the love that
gave it life