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?



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