Charlotte Bronte’s Paintbox
It smells of sandalwood and oil,
of ancient charcoal and lead.
If it could talk it would speak
in a whisper, a conspiratorial whisper.
Worn smooth by small white hands,
her prints still here on its dark interior.
If I put my lips to it I could taste
the printing ink on the lid.
It looks like my granny’s sewing box
with its neat drawers and ledges,
or the Japanese musical box
my grandfather gave me, a key
for each secret compartment,
the paint still yellow in its little white pot.
Carole Bromley lives in York where she is the stanza rep and runs poetry surgeries. She has three collections, A Guided Tour of the Ice House, The Stonegate Devil and Blast Off! (for children) www.carolebromleypoetry.co.uk