I love boxes, all shapes and sizes, boxes made of metal, wicker, wood, old boxes, dusty boxes.
Boxes are the stuff of imagination and curiosity.
When they are closed, locked, fastened or nailed shut, almost anything might be inside. In fact until the box is opened absolutely possibilities are limited only by that which our imagination can conjure.
It might be a picnic box, a toy box, a box of old treasures. Left in an attic it might contain old railway tickets and legal papers, bric a brac and old clothes, photographs, ornaments or certificate; their meaning or sentimental value lost to the ravages of time and perhaps the passing of their owners.
To a more fanciful mind a box might contain the egg of an alien creature, a cloud of magic dust, a book of mystic powers waiting to be unleashed on the unwary. It may not be a box at all but the opening of a passageway into the underworld, or an alternative time and place.
A box is a story waiting to be told, its contents secret and mysterious until the moment when a curious mind creaks it open, and reveals all.