The ivy covered telephone box, magic amongst the greenery

Just up from the Old School House, there's a disused telephone box - it's next to the bus stop - a X 53 bus goes past every two hours in the summer - when I see it go past in the twilight, I think of the celestial omnibus - perhaps you might see, from this mundane vehicle, the clouds beneath the wheels, the roof tops and superstores of Poole far below -

There was a time when I used public telephones - I can remember the smell of dust, the warmth of summer sunlight through the thick glass, the excitement rising in my throat - outside the telephone box, there might be dreary streets, or a car park, with a pack of souped up Ford Zodiacs -

Once, in a telephone box, I'd heard words which filled me with joy - not far away, there was a pub called The Eagle - in the lounge bar was a black and white television - cheese rolls were stacked on a tray like grenades - I'd just seen Top of the Pops on the pub TV - I'd seen Olivia Newton John, sashaying towards a dumb struck John Travolta -

But ivy is starting to cover this telephone box - the clever stems are reaching inside - dark greenery almost fills the interior - leaves brush against your skin - when you push open the door, you feel as though you are entering a magical place - something ordinary is becoming something strange -

Richard could not resist picking up the phone - he listened intently to the silence - what worlds lay beyond that handset - the end of that silver cord?