On the outskirts of a village,
Beside a country road,
Where tractors transport silage
And other heavy loads,
A sturdy signpost makes it clear
To those who care to read it here
The presence of a public path
And a red postbox beside it.
Who walks that rutted track
With trusty dog or friend
Across green fields and back
In sun, snow, rain and wind?
Do walkers post letters on the way
And is the box filled every day?