Folk Suburb #1

In the moment when you are tired, dog tired, but near no bed; when one world oscillates with another, and another one can be magicked, accessed through but the tired sight of one object, the smell of one some thing, the temperature of something: that is when the folk suburb reveals itself: in the right circumstances, like catching the fairy ring occupied.
I wish, I wish, but it's all in vain, I wish I were a maid again; but a maid again I never shall be till apples grow on an orange tree.  Swaying looking at a stand of trees so that the noise of the robin is as if they were on your shoulder, I saw, quite clearly, a broken asphalt path, broken by roots passing beneath it.
I wish my baby it was born, and smiling on its papa's knee, and I to be in yon churchyard, with long green grass growing over me.
It was blue coloured, in the shadow, the asphalt path, and rose into a stand of trees.  I don't recall the type of trees and cannot see them, but they were there.  And then, away to the right through the trees, a blue - it is definitely blue - blue wooden door in a high wall appears.  There is a flinty stone arch, like arrowheads, above the door.  Leaving the path in the stand of trees, opposite the door, I walk through the tussocky, ankle high grass where the park keeper's mower hardly ever goes, but twice a year, June and August, and enter by the blue door.

Suburb magick.  When my apron strings hung low, he followed me through frost and snow, but now my apron's to my chin, he passes by and says nothing.  Across a gravel border path a lawn, clipped and striped, and white metal tables laid for tea, outside the black 'french' windows spaces, hung with fluttery white curtains, of a 3 or 4 storey Regency house - actually a hotel but who would stay?
I myself took a dish of ice cream here once, when I was very small, one hot afternoon.
But already it is getting late, each flat in the Regency building has a light on against the bluing day, each tile fronted house hemming it in with TVs.  The grass is gone, car parked.
Oh grief, oh grief, I'll tell you why - that girl has more gold than I; more gold than I and beauty and fame, but she will come like me again.